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4 











CHRISTOPHER KENRICK. 



Christopher Kenrick: 


d6(:^b^ 


'“is Sifc and Jttonturcs. 


v" 

By JOSEPH HATTON, 


AUTHOR OF “ THE TALLANTS OF BARTON,” “ PIPPINS AND CHEESE,” 

ETC. 






NEW YORK : 

G. P. PUTNAM & SON. 

1869 . 




NKW YORK : 

LITTLE, RENNIE & CO., STEREOTYPERS. 


PRESS OP 

THE NEW YOKE PRINTING COMPANY, 

81, 83, AND 85 Centre Street, 

NEW YORK. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER. PAGE. 

Prefatory 9 

I. — In which I am miserable, and in which I run 

away from home - - - - - 13 

II. — A stranger in a strange land - - - - 18 

III. — I become a member of the fourth estate, and 

fall in love 23 

IV. — Introduces the reader to Miss Julia Belmont - 31 

V. — Family criticism — a chapter by the way - 39 

VI. — The story of my life progresses - - * 46 

VII. — The belle of Bromfield Road - - - 54 

VIII. — Mrs. Mitching gives a party - . . 65 

IX. — F amily criticism ; during which the story goes on 79 

X. — Esther, Emmy, Priscilla, Barbara - - 87 

XI. — Love passages 95 

XII. — Two spinsters and their pretty sister - - 106 

XIII. — Which ought to be published in ‘‘Bell’s Life” 118 

XIV. — Family criticism — A chapter by the way, chiefly 

on some “signs of the times” - - - 129 

XV. — In which I continue to study the “ Times” - 149 

XVI. — Another parting 164 

XVII. — A bundle of letters 172 

XVI 11 . — A chapter by the way, in which incident takes 

the place of criticism 184 

XIX. — My lodgings at Harbourford - - - 190 

XX. — In which I tell Abel Crockford the story of 

Velasquez 203 


8 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER. PAGE. 

XXL — Friends meet again, and one is rich - - 212 

XXII. — A chapter by the way - - - - 225 

XXIII. — Once more at stony-hearted Stoneyfield - - 230 

XXIV. — I am penniless and hungry - - - 241 

XXV. — Extracts from my diary ----- 256 
XXVI. — Criticism and gossip — a chapter by the way 276 
XXVII. — I have a romantic and interesting adventure 285 
XXVIII. — This day shall be a love-day” . - - 296 

XXIX. — Extracts from my diary, in which the story of 

my life is continued _ _ . _ 305 


XXX. — A chapter by the way : chiefly concerning the 
Rev. Paul Felton; but also interesting to 
the friends and admirers of Father Ellis - 320 

XXXI. — I am married 328 

XXXII.— A quiet life - 343 

XXXIII. — A family group at Hallow — ^being a closing 

chapter by the way - - - - 363 

XXXIV. — The last extracts from my diary - - _ 3^4 

XXXV. — Contains the friendly verdict of a friendly ’ 
jury, and brings my round unvarnished 
tale” to an end 


400 


CHEISTOPHER KENRICK. 


PEEFATOKY. 

“ I WILL a round unvarnished tale delivei 
Of my whole course of love.” — Othello. 

I WILL not deceive you, ladies and gentlemen ; 
this is no story of exciting adventures, of moving 
accidents by flood and fleld, of most disastrous 
chances in love and war. Neither a traveller nor a 
soldier, I have not traversed Arabian deserts, nor 
led storming parties against impregnable fortresses. 
You will find in me no hero of romance, bearded like 
the pard ; no occupant of strange disguises ; no tall, 
brown-haired woman-killer, combining the physical 
proportions of Hercules with the heart of Mantalini. 

In all my life I have not fought a duel, nor have I 
eloped with my neighbor’s wife, although I know 
one man who could not say as much. 

A quiet, sober, unpretentious gentleman, I can 
write a little ; I have exhibited several pictures at 
the Koyal Academy ; I can play the violin, and I 
live on my own estate in a west-midland county. 

Last year the free and independent electors of the 
1 * 


10 


CHllISTOPHER KENRICK. 


neighboring borough offered me a seat in Parliament. 
Mrs. Kenrick is of opinion that I did wrong to de- 
cline the honor of inscribing M. P. after my name. 
She is fortified still further in this by the assurance 
of a friend from the city of London that he could 
make these two initials “turn me in” (that is his 
phrase) two thousand pounds a year. My only reply 
is, that I have no ambition which a seat in the House 
of Commons would satisfy, and that I do not wish 
to make an income in the way suggested by my 
enterprising friend, at whose oJBSces in the city so 
many companies have been launched, as if they 
were intended to be wrecked by the first rough sea 
which should encounter them. Moreover, the in- 
gratitude of shareholders, when undeserved failure 
comes, is a rock ahead to be avoided by a peace- 
fully-disposed man ; and I know more about fiddle- 
sticks than finance. Mrs. Kenrick rejoins that I 
might sacrifice my feelings for the sake of the dear 
children. In the course of a long career I have made 
several and sundry sacrifices, for these same 
children. “ Upon such sacrifices, my Cordelia, the 
gods themselves throw incense.” Though I round 
off my reply with this quotation from our favorite 
bard, with some dramatic action, it is quite enough 
for Mrs. Kenrick, who, seeing that I am really seri- 
ous, leaves me in possession of the field and con- 
tinues her knitting. 

Whether I am justified in seeking an audience for 
so commonplace a performance as the story of my 


PKEFATORY. 


11 


life, the reader himself must judge. Mrs. Kenrick 
has long been of opinion that the career of her hus- 
band is a very remarkable chapter in biographical 
and general history ; but she has all the prejudices 
of a good wife in everything that concerns Mr. 
Christopher Kenrick. 

In the way of a candid and tmthful narrative I find 
some formidable difficulties. Amongst the chiefest is 
the fear of wounding Mrs. Kenrick’s pride, and low- 
ering the dignity of my family, which, by reason of a 
rural residence, twenty acres of land, and two pairs 
of horses, has taken what is called a county position. 
I am given to understand that this endows us with an 
unmistakable right to snub the best people in the 
neighboring town, and also entitles us to visit the 
Eight Hon. Slumkey Skiddens, the lord of the 
manor, the county magistrates, the clergy, and all 
the other dignitaries of the district ; to say nothing 
of introducing my girls to the Archery and Croquet 
Clubs of the county, and providing my son with a 
complimentary commission in the Eoyal Western 
Militia. 

These are privileges which Mrs. Kenrick would 
not rashly relinquish, and it has occurred to me 
that the publication of my autobiography may not 
tend to the maintenance . of that dignity which 
inaugurated the appearance of the Kenricks at 
Hallow. I have always been anxious to show the 
utmost consideration for my wife’s prejudices. Not 
that I am by any means henpecked. Mrs. Kenrick 


12 


CHRISTOPHER KENRTCK. 


has too much respect for herself to lower the manli- 
ness of her husband. I am my own master, and the 
head of my own household; but there are many 
little incidents in a man’s life, which, as a rule, he 
would not voluntarily narrate to the wife of his 
bosom. This latter thought has perplexed me far 
more than my fears about prejudicing the family 
position ; but I have concluded a hona fide contract 
with myself to finish my career with this one book, 
that shall set forth a true and particular account of 
my life and adventures, irrespective of all considera- 
tions anent family pride or matrimonial jealousy. 

Thus much by way of personal introduction. 
“My intents are fixed, and will not leave me.” 
Ladies and gentlemen, I am your humble, obedient 
servant, and that which follows is your humble, 
obedient servant’s history. 


CHAPTEE I. 


IN WHICH I AM MISEBABLE, AND IN WHICH I BUN AWAY 
EBOM HOME. 

Did you ever run away from home ? 

It is a bold thing to do ; but a bolder never to 
return again, — to stay away forever and ever, and 
fight your own battle in the great, wide world. 

Whilst I write I see a little midland town in a 
misty autumn morning. The first bell of the day is 
being rung in the old church tower. Factory men 
and women are trudging off to work, and the shut- 
ters of industrious tradesmen are being taken down 
^.y apprentices. 

I see a young feUow — a boy, indeed, with big. 
staring eyes, and dark-brown hair — open the door 
of a respectable old-fashioned looking house and 
step upon the pavement. He is a well-dressed and 
comely youth — a resolute, handsome lad, one of 
those determined, hot-headed fellows, with whom it 
is a word and a blow. If you had been at school 
with that boy, you would not have called him a 
coward, nor any other objectionable name, without 
being quite prepared to defend yourself. He was 
one of those youths who cannot brook control, un- 
less it might be the control of a kind-hearted, tender 
mother, or the control of a true and discreet friend. 


14 


CHEISTOPHEE KENEICK. 


To oppose or defy such spirits, is to excite their com- 
bativeness and insure a vigorous defence of their 
self-respect, or perhaps one ought to say their self- 
esteem. 

As the autumn mist crept along the quiet street of 
the quiet midland town, this boy of sixteen summers 
stood upon the damp pavement, and looked up at 
the closed windows and the cold white blinds. He 
seemed to take the whole house into his long 
scrutinizing gaze ; and then, picking up the little 
bag which he had for a moment laid do^vn on the 
doorstep, he walked away and disappeared. 

Have you ever run away from home ? 

If you are a boy, and think it would be grand and 
romantic to do so, reflect, and stay where you are. 
Should you be a parent, and have given cause for 
your son to dislike his home and resent your 
strained authority, be more conciliatory in future ; 
be just, but generous also. It is a terrible thing, if 
you be a boy, to run away from home ; if you be a 
father, it is no less miserable to find that your son 
has had to seek justice and generosity and kindness 
amongst strangers. 

Why do I know so much about it ? Because that 
boy whom I see in the past, leaving the midland 
town on that autumn morning, was myseK. You 
tliink I have been especially complimentary in de- 
scribing my own personal appearance ? Not at all. 
I was a round-faced, bright-eyed, handsome fellow 
in those days. Had I not on my side the ardor of 


I KUN AWAY FEOM HOME. 


15 


youtli, with some of its innocence, and all its hope ? 
What face is not handsome which has upon it the 
bloom of youth, and in its eyes the light of an inno- 
cent, courageous, and true soul ? 

These were quahties that were not fully appre- 
ciated in my home. My poor father (God rest him !) 
was a passionate, impatient man; my mother, a 
weak, suspicious woman. They loved me in their 
way, and I loved them in mine, and love their dear 
memories still; but our notions of the duties of 
parents and sons differed. My father’s faith in the 
efficacy of physical punishment was too strong for 
me ; and one evening I said most solemnly that I 
should run away. My father told me to go to the 
devil ; and I went the next morning, not to the devil, 
but to an old midland city. 

I went thither by train on one of the earliest rail- 
ways in an empty open fourth-class carriage some- 
thing like the modern cattle truck. When the whistle 
sounded, and I saw the station and the town, the 
gray church, and the churchyard where my little bro- 
ther lay, all slipping away from me, slipping away 
forever — when I saw this and felt that I was alone, 
I fell on my knees and prayed to God, and wept. 

And wept! Aye, such bitter tears as few boys 
had wept before or since. I stretched out my arms 
for comfort, and then I looked up and said : “ Good- 
bye, dear cruel Stoneyfield, good-bye 1 God forgive 
us both 1” 

My father was a printer. He had one of those 


16 


CHRISTOPHER KENRICK. 


quaint-looking booksellers’ shops and printing of- 
fices wliicli were to be seen in most country towns 
thirty years ago. Two bow-windows, with a door 
in the centre : two bow-windows full of books, sta- 
tionery, bibles and primers, sealing-wax and wafers, 
pens and pencils, engravings and illustrated note- 
headings, patent medicines, and postage stamps. 
A very quaint old shop, forsooth, with “ Bobinson 
Crusoe,” “ The Whole Duty of Man,” “ Gulliver’s 
Travels,” “ Burton’s Anatomy of Melancholy,” “ The 
Works of William Shakspeare,” “ Heathen Mythol- 
ogy,” on one set of dusty book-shelves ; and “ Jack 
the Giant Killer,” “ Blue Beard,” “ The Speaker,” and 
“Fairy Tales,” on another; with a miscellaneous 
collection of “ Songs and Ballads,” in a particular 
corner for miscellaneous hawkers and others, who 
bought them to sell at fairs and races. All these 
things I devoured ; my education was the education 
afforded chiefly by that miscellaneous shop. And 
when I could set up types, when my little fingers 
had been sufficiently trained after school-hours, and 
on those many days when I never went to school 
at all, I hunted up strange border ballads to prac- 
tise upon. My father said this had turned my head : 
he had often punched my head in order to knock it 
straight again, I presume; but no punishment 
could drive out of my brain the glorious stories of 
those old books, or the ringing metre of those spark- 
ling heroic ballads. 

At this present moment I can honestly take credit 


I RUN AWAY FROM HOME. 


17 


to myself for introducing amongst the yards of songs 
which are sold at Midland fairs, some of the best 
ballad literature of the nation. My father used to 
say that I set up all the most stupid and sentimental 
songs that had ever been written ; but I turn me 
now, in my declining years, to “Percy’s Eelics,” 
and “ The Ballad Book,” refreshing my memories of 
those past days, and indorsing my boyish judgment 
with the approval of experience. 

Why should I tell you all this ? Simply that you 
may understand something of the bias of my youth- 
ful mind. Our education does not simply consist in 
what we learn at school. My education was ob- 
tained in that old shop, and in that old printing of- 
fice, where all the work was done on one wooden 
press, by two or three wooden men, who laughed and 
jeered at that bright-eyed wilful boy, who stood 
upon a stool and set up border ballads. 

Nobody understood me in that hard, God-forsaken 
Stoneyfield — schoolmasters, tutors^, boys, girls, pa- 
rents. They all depreciated that little fellow who 
would have his own way. Perhaps he deserved 
their scorn ; perhaps he did not. Had they once 
tested the tenderness of his heart, they might have 
treated him differently; but they only tried his 
courage, his firmness, his self-love : and these were 
in a chronic state of excitement in consequence, until 
one misty autumn morning, when the little Stoney- 
field printer fell on his knees and bade the cruel 
town good-bye forever. 


CHAPTEE II. 


A STKANGEE IN A STEANGE LAND. 

I FELT none of the despondency and depression 
which usually attends the exile. 

With that first pang of grief in the railway train, 
my heart had relieved itself of all that latent affection 
for Stoneyfield which comes with early associations, 
even though they be painful. 

If I knew none of the people whom I met in this 
strange city of Lindford, they offered me no indignity. 
The big boys did not square up at me and expect 
me to fight, as they did at Stoneyfield, and as I some- 
times did to their cost ; the little ones did not sneer 
and call me names when they were far enough off to 
be out of harm’s way. I was a man here on my owm 
responsibility, new to the people, they new to me. 

My heart leaped at the prospect before me. 
Here I would begin the great fight. Under the 
shadow of that grand cathedral would I plant my 
standard, and commence those preliminary contests 
which come before the great shock of the confiict. 

I carried my little bag and leisurely reconnoitred 
the city. I found it a long straggling street of quiet- 
looking shops and substantial residences, with little 
thoroughfares branching off here and there, and a 


A STKANGER IN A STRANGE LAND. 


19 


deep calm river dividing it in two — a deep calm river 
with lazy barges upon its placid bosom, lazy barges 
wending their way, with big brown sails, like exag- 
gerated bats’-wings, to the broad ocean that waited 
for them beyond the great wide plain. 

Close by the town bridge over the river there was 
a handsome bookseller’s shop, — handsome to me who 
had known no better establishment than that empo- 
rium of curiosities at Stoneyfield. Two plate-glass 
windows enclosed showy specimens of an attractive 
stock of books and pictures ; and in gold letters on 
the glass was printed — ‘‘Offices of the LiTudford 
HeraUr 

I lingered about this establishment for some time, 
peeped in at the open doorway, and I can remember 
now the pleasant smell of Kussia and Morocco-bound 
prayer-books and bibles that were being exhibited 
at the moment to a fastidious customer. It was a 
large, well-stocked shop, with neat glass-cases be- 
hind the counters ; and on one side a little office — 
cut off, no doubt, for the principal ; and on a brass 
plate fastened to the door-post once more I observed 
the magic words, “ Lindford Herald,^ 

With the perfume of the handsome bindings, and 
all that power of glass and books in my mind, I 
sought out a respectable inn, and ordered a frugal 
dinner. 

Whilst the waiter was laying the cloth, I washed, 
changed my collar and necktie, and made myself as 
presentable as my small wardrobe would allow. 


20 


CHEISTOPHEE KENEICK. 


Seeing a stalwart fellow setting out the table and 
bringing in meat and potatoes and beer specially for 
me, helped to foster those manly sensations which I 
had felt when I stepped upon the Lindford platform. 

Nevertheless, it was with considerable nervousness 
that I entered Mr. Mitching’s handsome shop, an 
hour afterward, and offered him my services. 

The proprietor of the Lindford Herald and that 
fine glassy shop put up his eyeglass to look at me, 
and patronizingly asked me what I could do. 

I see him now — a stout, pompous, elderly gentle- 
man, with bushy gray whiskers, a florid complexion, 
and a large quantity of black silk watchguard, which 
gave him a still more fussy and grandiloquent aspect. 
His gold-rimmed eyeglasses enhanced his dignity in 
my estimation. He had a magnificent way of 
balancing them on his nose, and looking over the 
glasses and under them, as he pleased, by way of 
variation to the monotony of their own intrinsic 
magnifying power. 

“Well, sir, you are a strange young gentleman, 
certainly. I think the best thing I can do is to 
hand you over to the police until your friends are 
informed of your whereabouts, sir.” 

I was particularly struck with the dignity of being 
addressed as Sir. At home nobody called me any- 
thing but Christopher, and we should not there have 
thought of addressing any one less than a magistrate 
as Sir. For a moment it occurred to me that Mr. 
Mitching was sneering at me, and then a little of 


A STEANGER IN A STRANGE LAND. 


21 


the cowed feeling of Stoneyfield exercised a depress- 
ing influence upon me, and I did not inake the 
spirited reply to Mr. Hitching which had been in 
my mind a few moments previously. 

It was lucky for me that I did not, for Mr. Hitch- 
ing, taldng me kindly by the hand, led me into a 
snug parlor at the back of the office, and there in- 
troduced me to his wife. 

“ Master Christopher Kenrick, my dear,” said the 
proprietor of the Lindford Herald — “who has run 
away from home, because he is not properly appre- 
ciated.” 

This was an adaptation of a portion of the story 
which I had related to Mr. Hitching. “ Properly 
appreciated” seemed to tickle him immensely. 

“ Not properly appreciated,” he continued, laugh- 
ing and elevating his glasses at me once more ; “ in 
consequence of which melancholy circumstance he 
has left home, intending to fight his own way in 
the world independently of parental aid or control. 
With a view of commencing his career under the 
most favorable circumstances, he offers his services to 
me, and is prepared to commence work to-morrow.” 

“ Pray sit down, Mr. Kenrick,” said the lady, in a 
pleasant, musical voice. “ How old are you?” 

“ Nearly seventeen, madam,” I replied. 

“ Can you write a leader now for the Herald, do 
you think ?” said Mr. Hitching, nodding quietly at 
his wife to intimate that they would have some fun 
presently. 


22 


CHEISTOPHER KENEIGK. 


‘‘ I fear not, sir,” I replied modestly. 

“ You think it would not be properly appreciated, 
eh? Ah! ah! ah! Upon my word you are a 
funny fellow.” 

“ Don’t laugh at him, George,” said Mrs. Hitching, 
who observed my lip quiver slightly. “ I am sure he 
is a brave, honest boy.” 

“No doubt, no doubt,” said. Mr. Hitching; “and 
I’ll tell you what it is, love — he shall come and give 
us the benefit of his experience in the art of print- 
ing and publishing, to-morrow. "What do you say. 
Master Kenrick — will you come for a week on trial, 
and see if we can properly appreciate you ?” 

As he said this, the old gentleman patted me 
kindly on the head, and looked for a smile of ap- 
proval from his wife, who rewarded him promptly. 

She was a pretty little woman, this Mrs. Hitching, 
and at least twenty years younger than her husband. 
I shall never forget her bright, gray eyes, her white 
teeth, her genial smile, and her supple figure. How 
that big, pompous old gentleman had induced her 
to marry him was a mystery which I used sometimes 
to think about in after years, when I had nearly 
fallen in love with her myself. 

With the aid of Mr. Mitching’s shopman, I found 
out a comfortable lodging, and that night I slept 
for the first time in my own rooms. 


CHAPTEK III. 


I BECOME A MEMBEE OF THE FOUKTH ESTATE, AND 
FALL IN LOYE. 

Happy days, those early days of youthful hope 
and ambition ! Happy, despite occasional pangs of 
remorse. 

“ Honor thy father and thy mother, that thy days 
may be long in the land.” How these words hit 
me down in my loneliness I will not weary the 
reader by explaining. 

I was comforted, however, by an inward con- 
sciousness of a desire to honor my father and my 
mother. There are duties of parents and duties of 
children. Had I done mine? I did not care to 
question my father’s position; but I earnestly in- 
quired into my own, and my conscience upheld me, 
more particularly after I had written a filial letter 
home, in which I claimed to take my own course, 
and yet expressed a sonly regard for my father and 
a dutiful affection for my mother. 

Yet when I heard of other young fellows going 
down home to shoot or fish, or to spend a day or 
two, I felt my exile acutely ; for my father did not 
write to me, and my mother only sent me one or 
two cold, formal letters. 


24 


CHKISTOPHER KENEICK. 


Seeing that it was alleged against me that I had 
caused my parents nothing but trouble and anxiety, 
it might be that they were glad to be rid of their 
tiresome son. That my father loved me I knew full 
well, but he was a strange, proud, passionate man ; 
and my mother was too reserved to exhibit her af- 
fection, though in early days I do remember me of 
one or two consoling hours with my head on her 
knee, upon those painful occasions when my father 
had fully vindicated his faith in the rod. But these 
instances of maternal affection were long and long 
before I had resolved to run away from home ; and 
they had not been latterly repeated, lest I should be 
spoiled, perchance, notwithstanding an unsparing 
physical purgation of boyish faults. 

I attended at Mr. Mitching’s on that next morn- 
ing, and found the magnificent proprietor of the 
Lindford Herald engaged in balancing his eye- 
glasses upon his well-developed nose. At the close 
of the day he looked over them and under them at 
me, stuck his thumbs into the armholes of his 
waistcoat, and complimented me upon my intelli- 
gence. 

‘‘ I think you will be appreciated here, Mr. Ken- 
rick ; I think so, indeed ; be industrious, be honest, 
be honorable, and you may fairly follow up that 
grand course of independence which you have 
chalked out for yourself, sir. Mrs. Mitching has a 
high opinion of you, and the greatest compliment 


THE FOURTH ESTATE, 


25 


in the world which I can pay any one is to say that 
he holds a place in the good opinion of Mrs. Hitch- 
ing f sir, that he holds a place in her good 
opinion.” 

Mr. Hitching evidently liked the latter phrase. 
As an orator and proprietor of the Lindford Herald 
he had of course a right to make a speech at me, 
and he very frequently afterward indulged himself 
in this respect ; so much so, that more than once in 
the days that followed I had almost mechanically 
taken out my note-book to record his auricular 
utterances. 

On that first day, and many others, I had the fe- 
licity of laboring in my new quarters, with the ap- 
proval of Mr. Hitching. My position in his famous 
offices was humble at first, but I worked my way 
upward with strong and certain strides. 

In a few months I mastered a system of short- 
hand sufficiently well to write it, as Dickens’ hero 
wrote it, and with all that gentleman’s difficulties in 
the way of interpretation. Under the infiuence of a 
patient perseverance, fostered and kept awake by 
cold tea and wet towels, I produced my first report, 
commenced one evening at sunset and finished as 
the sun rose again, turning my poor candle into a 
weak and yellow flame. 

I tackled those wretched hieroglyphics of Hard- 
ing’s with the firmness of a runaway slave who 
struggles on through pestilential marsh and jungle, 
for the sake of the liberty that is beyond. 


2 


26 


CHKISTOPHEE KENEICK. 


Not twelve months had elapsed before I was pro- 
moted to the dignity of chief reporter of the Lind- 
ford Herald ; and in those days that was as much 
of a triumph to me with my poor limited ambition 
as Benjamin Disraeli’s elevation the other day was 
to him, in his more magnificent and extended 
destinies. 

In a provincial city, such as Lindford, a gentleman 
holding my position was a gentleman of no mean 
importance. The county paper had a power that 
Londoners can hardly understand. An objection- 
able criticism of any public act connected with Lind- 
ford was of much greater weight in the county paper 
than it would have been in the Times. Everybody 
in the ancient city saw the old paper, and talked 
over its news on Saturday nights, and everybody 
was anxious to stand well with the reporter. 

The actors who came to Lindford for the assizes, 
the races, or the Whitsuntide-holidays, hunted up 
the reporter of the Lindford Herald, and made that 
young gentleman very happy by giving him the 
entree behind the scenes. 

What a change there was in that melancholy 
youth who was running away in the first chapter of 
this narrative ! 

In less than a year I had budded into stick-up 
collars, and blossomed as a smart young gentleman 
in a tall hat and frock-coat. I smoked, too, and had 
a suit of flannels made for rowing and cricketing. 
There was a black streak of down on my uppeo: lip. 


I FALL IN LOVE. 


27 


and my voice was rough. I read up politics, and 
began to think that some day I might be an editor. 
This daring flight of ambition, however, I am bound 
to say was a secret in my own breast, until a certain 
soft- voiced young person elicited from my own lips 
an occasional outburst of ambitious hopes, amongst 
which was this one magnificent notion of future 
greatness. 

I look back now upon that Lindford reporter, with 
his limited range of hope, as a sort of psychological 
study, and I envy him his quiet, unsophisticated 
pleasures. Can that young fellow whom I see strut- 
ting along the High Street of Lindford, with his 
note-book under his arm, in which there is a true 
and particular account of the last meeting of the 
Lindford Town Council, have been Christopher Ken- 
rick ? Happy youth ! His two sovereigns a week 
were far sweeter to him than hundreds have been to 
the man who was once that boy ! 

For many months my chief companions were those 
imaginary beings of the books in my father’s old 
shop at Stoneyfield. The works of William Shak- 
speare ! — how they clung to my fancy, what solace, 
what delight they afforded me! And “The 
Speaker,” with its many flowers, culled from the 
literary highway 1 Who shall ever tell all the 
pleasures of literature ? or be sufficiently grateful 
for the works of William Shakspeare ? 

Do I owe it to these romantic books of unroman- 
tic Stoneyfield that my heart was so susceptible in 


28 


CHEISTOPHER KENRICK. 


those early days ? Should I ever have fallen in “ love 
at first sight” had not my fancy and imagination 
been excited by poetry and romance? Or did Fate 
take me by the hand, on that summer evening long 
ago, and lead me down the High Street just as 
Esther Wilton and her sister were sauntering home- 
ward in the twilight? 

Esther Wilton ! I see her now, a girl in her first 
long frock, a dark green lama frock, that clung to 
her lithe undulating figure, and set off all its fair 
proportions. She came upon me like a dream of 
beauty, with soft blue eyes and a round happy face. 
From her ample Leghorn hat there fell a cluster of 
brown silky curls, and she seemed to glide along like 
a Goddess of Evening. I write too enthusiastically, 
you think ? I write as I felt in those early days of 
love, and hope, and ambition. By her side was her 
sister Emmy, a dark-brown, black-eyed, quick- 
tempered-looking girl, several years Esther’s senior. 
I took her into my mind at that first glance, but she 
only seemed to act as a foil to her younger sister’s 
rosy beauty. 

I knew neither one nor the other then by name, 
but I watched them along the street, far away, until 
they were out of sight ; and I went home with one 
sweet image in my memory forever and for aye. 
Home ! how easily I write the word, I who may be 
said to have had no home in those days, I who* had 
turned my back upon home, to stand alone in the 
world. Home, the poets say, must be associated 


I FALL IN LOVE. 


29 


with those we love ; home must be the dwelling- 
place of the heart. How could I call my humble 
lodging home? — two narrow little rooms in the 
house of a widow ; and such a widow — a ranting 
woman, with a pin in her eye and all the colors of 
the rainbow in her cap. You could hear her all 
over the house when she slept, she pervaded every 
room when she awoke. She was essentially a noisy, 
loud woman, continually asserting herself, forever 
taking her stand on the character and reputation of 
Mr. Nixon, who had died abroad whilst preparing 
for his wife to join him in the colonies, whither he 
had gone to make their mutual fortunes, — induced 
to leave her, I should imagine, because of her self- 
assertion, rather than, as she explained, out of the 
great love he had for her, and his desire that she 
should be independent of the cares and troubles at- 
tendant upon her extensive business of fashionable 
milliner and mantle-maker. 

And this was my home. I called it home, and 
felt a homely regard for it. My first lodgings I had 
recently deserted, and I had been in these new ones 
only a fortnight when I went home with those soft 
blue eyes of Esther Wilton in my heart. 

I had one accomplishment of which I have not 
yet spoken. My father was a good musician, and 
he had taught me to play upon the violin. Kecently 
I had been enabled to purchase an instrument of 
moderate quality, and I found it a source of great 
solace and pleasure in my new home. If your no- 


30 


CHEISTOPHEE KENEICK. 


tions of the violin are of the fair and races aspect, 
if you call the instrument a fiddle, and think of it in 
connection with a jig, you will laugh at my being in 
love with an unknown face, seen for the first time, 
and pouring my passion into a fiddle. Laugh, my 
friend, an it please you ; life is a mixture of the 
sublime and the ridiculous ; but there was no mirth 
in those long, singing tones which came out of that 
violin. If you know the instrument, you know how 
it can talk ; what sweet, tender things it will say to 
those who can interpret its language. With my 
soul in my hand, I believe I composed a musical 
idyl that night. I had a new power. A new ambi- 
tion had taken possession of me. I was a new man. 
I seemed to desire a closer friendship with the 
world. Before I went to bed I sat down and wrote 
a dutiful and affectionate letter to my mother, whose 
forgiveness I implored, whose happiness I prayed 
for, and whose good offices with my father I humbly 
solicited. 


CHAPTEE lY. 


INTEODUCES THE EEADEE TO MISS JULIA BELMONT. 

How quickly the time sped away ! 

I liad labored bard to master the details of the 
profession into wbicb Fate bad launched me ; and 
success was crowning my efforts when a new attrac- 
tion presented itseK. 

At the Lindford theatre a company was perform- 
ing for the summer season. I had won the good 
feeling of the whole dramatic corps by a wonderful 
series of eulogistic criticisms of their performances. 
I had more particularly taken under my journalistic 
protection Miss Julia Belmont, a young lady who 
played leading business, and captivated all the 
young gentlemen in Lindford. 

Miss Belmont was not more than twenty. The 
manager informed me that there was some sad 
secret in her history, which gave her peculiar claims 
to consideration. She had only been on the stage 
two years ; but she had made a successful debut in 
London, and was now making a tour through the 
provinces for the sake of experience in stage busi- 
ness. She had a bright gray eye, which seemed to 
look into your very heart. Neither a blonde nor a 
brunette, she had that neutral kind of complexion 


32 


CHRISTOPHEE KENEICK. 


wliicli makes up well on tlie stage. Her carriage 
was graceful, and slie was refined and lady-like in 
her manner and address. 

I am enabled to speak thus critically because I 
had done myself the pleasure of responding to her 
invitation, and had called upon her before she had 
been in Lindford a fortnight. I shall never forget 
her little room. It was small and httery. There 
was an old-fashioned square piano in one corner ; a 
fluffy old sofa in another, with feathers bursting 
through the chintz ; a wicker chair on one side the 
fireplace, and two rush-bottomed chairs on the other 
side. In the centre of the room there was a round 
table covered with green baize, upon which tea- 
things were generally displayed, mixed up with 
marked play-books, manuscript sheets of music, and 
stray play-bills. A few books were huddled to- 
gether upon a table under the window, that looked 
upon a back-yard where clothes were generally 
hanging out to dry. The mantel-shelf was adorned 
with sundry dilapidated yet showy ornaments be- 
longing to the house, and a scent-bottle and some 
other trifles of the kind belonging to the heroine of 
the dramatic muse at Lindford. 

Amid these lodging-house gods sat Miss Julia 
Belmont, in a muslin dress, pink shppers, and curl- 
papers. She looked charming in my eyes at aU 
times — more so, perhaps, en d^liaUlle, than in theat- 
rical robes and theatrical paint. 

“ And you have left parents and home, as I have 


MISS JULIA BELMONT^ 


33 


done ?” slie said to me one morning after rehearsal, 
when I called on my way from a magisterial meeting, 
the prosy details of which were stowed away in my 
pocket, mysteriously disguised for the present in 
shorthand. 

“ Yes,” I said ; “ but I am better able to fight the 
world alone than you are. Miss Belmont.” 

“ Indeed !” she said, rolling her gray eyes upon 
me, and looking at me as if she were peering up out 
of a deep reverie. 

“ I do not mean so far as ability goes. Miss Beh 
mont. I trust I should not be so absurd as that.” 

“ You are a flatterer,” said the actress, smiling in 
a vague, musing way. 

“ No, I assure you,” I replied,- with alacrity. “ I 
never saw a lady who realizes so well my idea of a 
great actress.” 

“For one so young you pay compliments very 
proficiently. How many ladies have you seen play 
the parts which I play ?” 

“ One other,” I said. 

“ Only one ; and where, pray?” 

“At the Summer Fair in Stoneyfield Market- 
place.” 

“ You are facetious,” said Miss Belmont, looking 
just a little piqued. 

“ No, indeed, I am not. She played Desdemona 
one night, Lody Macbeth another, and last of all I 
saw her as Maria Martini 

“ And you think I excel her ?” 

2 * 


34 


CHRISTOPHER KENRICK. 


‘‘ Immeasurably,” I said. 

“Thank you, Mr. Kenrick,” she said. “You 
amuse me. You may wait for me at the stage-door 
to-night, and bring me home.” 

“ I shall be delighted,” I replied ; and I left her 
to perch myself on a wooden stool and write out all 
the wisdom uttered by the Lindford county magis- 
trates in petty sessions that morning assembled. 

Gentle reader, be kind and considerate to reporters 
— never write to the papers and complain that they 
have not correctly reported you. Give them the best 
seats at your public dinners, the best places at your 
public meetings. Eemember them in your prayers ; 
and if you are rich, startle some poor member of the 
profession when you die by mentioning him for a 
legacy in your will. They are a hard-working, ill- 
appreciated race. How often do you go home 
from a great meeting, wearied and sick with the 
speaking to which you have been compelled to lis- 
ten ! Just think that the reporters have not only 
been compelled to listen, they have had to follow all 
the talk with their pencils ; and whilst you are com- 
fortably asleep in bed, they are painfully transcribing 
their notes for the printer. 

Of all the heart-breaking sights, an untranscribed 
note-book, full to the last leaf, is “ the most heart- 
breakingest ;” but coupled therewith is the joy with 
which the reporter runs his pen through the last sen- 
tence and performs that final flourish which con- 
cludes nearly every shorthand writer’s “ copy.” 


MISS JULIA BELMONT. 


35 


It was not Miss Julia Belmont’s face that seemed 
to look up at me every now and then from the depths 
of my note-book, but that of the blue eyes and silky 
curls ; and at night in the theatre I found myself 
thinking of this same face, even during Miss Bel- 
mont’s performance of Bosalind, 

“Do you think the lady at the fair could have 
played Rosalind as well as Miss Belmont ?” said that 
young lady, as I walked home with her at the close 
of the performance. 

“ Oh, no,” I replied. 

“ Have you read much of Shakspeare ?” 

“ I almost know him by heart.” 

“ Which are your favorite heroines ?” 

“ Miranda, Bosalind, Portia, and Constance.” 

“ Your judgment is not bad, Mr. Kenrick. How 
old are you ?” 

Miss Belmont seemed to be regularly taking me 
under her charge. . 

“Eighteen,” I said. 

“Three years younger than I,” she replied, as if 
she were making a mental memorandum of the dif- 
ference between our ages. 

“ I wish I was three years older,” I said. 

“ Why ?” asked Miss Belmont, promptly. 

“ I don’t know why. I should hke to be a man.” 

“ So you are a man — much more of a man than 
many who are ten years your senior.” 

“ Do you think so ?” I asked, looking round at her 
curiously, as we passed under a gas-lamp. 


36 


CHRISTOPHER KENRICK. 


I do,” she said in reply, laughing and pressing 
ray arm with a gentle pressure. “ Why, here we 
are at home, I declare ! How quickly we must have 
walked !” 

I was about to say Good-night” here, but a sa- 
vory smell of hot supper, and a hospitable invita- 
tion to partake thereof, were sufficiently attractive 
to make me a willing guest of Miss Belmont’s. 
There were fellows in Lindford who would have 
given their ears to have such a tUe-a-tete as I had 
upon this occasion with the fair young actress. 

The supper consisted of a rich stew of some kind, 
with fried potatoes and bottled stout. After this 
Miss Belmont mixed for herself a little grog in a 
wine-glass, and for me a larger modicum in a tum- 
bler. 

‘‘ Do you like music ?” Miss Belmont inquired. 

“ Yery much indeed,” I said. 

“ I must play softly, or we shall disturb the house- 
hold,” said the actress, taking her seat at a six-octave 
square. “ What do you like?” 

‘‘Anything that you like I am sure will please 
me,” I said. 

“ One of Mendelssohn’s ‘ Songs Without Words’ ?” 
she suggested. 

“ Next to a real song with words,” I said. 

“Oh, I rarely sing,” said Miss Belmont, com- 
mencing one of Mendelssohn’s sublime composi- 
tions. 

The performer played a few bars very well, and 


MISS JULIA BELMONT. 37 

then she got into an inextricable confusion, which 
made her angry. 

“I always stick here,” she said, impatiently. 

‘‘ You make a slight mistake in the crotchet-rest 
there,” I said, pointing out her difficulty. “ The 
right-hand chord comes in before that half bar — ” 

“ You are a musician, I see,” said Miss Belmont, 
leaving her seat. “ You play.” 

“ Not the piano ; at least, only a little.” 

“ Oh, yes, you do ; play me that difficult passage.” 

I did so, though I bungled at it slightly. 

“ Upon my honor, you are an accomplished young 
gentleman,” said Miss Belmont, half in earnest, half 
sarcastically, I thought. 

‘‘I wish I were,” I replied, quietly.. “I play the 
violin a little.” 

“You do ! then you shall bring your violin up and 
we will practise together.” 

“ I will,” I said, nothing loth. “ But pray finish 
your piece.” 

“ No ; I will sing you just one song, and then you 
must go home.” 

It was a sweet and tender strain, and the singer 
seemed to feel its Iburden of love and sorrow. 

“There, sir,” she said, when it was over, “now 
you must go home, or you will have a bad charac- 
ter.” 

“ I am sure I thank you very much for letting me 
stay so long,” I said, taking up my hat, and pre- 
paring to obey the lady’s orders. 


38 


CHRISTOPHEE KENKICK. 


You may kiss my hand,” she said, when I had 
taken it to say good-night. 

I kissed her hand accordingly, and I was ungrate- 
ful enough to think all the way home how much I 
should like to kiss the hand of that pretty girl in 
the lama frock. 


CHAPTEK Y. 


FAMILY CKITICISM — A CHAPTER BY THE WAY. 

It would have been more conducive to my own 
comfort, and probably more satisfactory to the read- 
er, had I published no part of this story until it had 
become a finished and complete performance. 

My neglect in this respect has, since the first por- 
tion of the narrative appeared, subjected me to a 
running fire of family criticism, objections, and re- 
monstrances. This is not all ; it has resulted in the 
introduction of a new feature here which I certainly 
never contemplated at the outset — a new feature 
which may or may not please the reader. 

The GentlemarC s Ilagazine, containing my opening 
chapters, has not been in the house a day before 
Mrs. Kenrick favors me with her confidential opin- 
ion upon the work. 

“ It will not only be a failure, Christopher,*’ she 
says ; “ it will do the family irreparable injury.” 

"Why will it be a failure ?” I inquire. 

“ Because it is too true, my dear,” she says. 

And why will it injure the family ?” I ask. 

Because it is too true,” my wife replies again. 

“ Its truthfulness will be its greatest charm with 
the public,” I reply. “Keaders quite jog with An- 


40 


CHEISTOPHEE KENEICK. 


tony’s exclamation — ‘ who tells me true, though in 
his tale He death, I hear him as he flatter’d.’ ” 

“ I do not care about Antony or the public,” my 
wife rejoins, with more than ordinary emphasis. 
“ When I have urged you to tell the story of your 
life, I never for one moment thought you would de- 
scribe it so closely.” 

“ Have you any other objection ?” I ask, quietly. 

“ I shall simply be confined to the house forever, 
if you continue to write this last book on the plan 
with which you have set out ; I shall be ashamed to 
visit any one.” 

My wife evidently does not know what else to say ; 
so she bounces off to her room, and leaves me to 
digest her opinion. There is wisdom, perhaps, in 
her objections ; I might have colored the early chap- 
ters a little ; the rest can take care of themselves. 

After our evening cup of coffee on that same 
day, I can see that I am in for a general family 
criticism. 

My eldest son is the first to open fire. He is just 
finishing his education for the army ; he has a com- 
mission in the militia, and that gallant force will be 
up for training in the county town next week. 

“ Excuse me, governor,” says my eldest son ; but 
I wish you had not considered it necessary to go 
into all those details of your youth in that professed 
autobiography which you have commenced.” 

Indeed !” I reply, willing to hear all that my 
family can advance upon the subject. 


FAMILY CRITICISM. 


41 


“ I shall be chaffed at mess next week, I know.” 

“ Indeed !” I say, quietly. 

“I shall be asked if I ever ran away from 
home.” 

“ You can say ‘ No, you were never miserable,’ ” 
I rejoin, without the slightest emotion. 

“ Yes ; but, governor, is it really necessary to go 
into all those details ?” 

I sip my coffee and smile. My youngest daughter 
(she is engaged to our promising curate, who will 
one day be vicar of Hallow) looks up into my face, 
and says she has been asked over and over again, 
which young lady papa really married, the one with 
the blue eyes, or the actress. 

“ Pleasant, truly,” says Mrs. Kenrick, “ to have 
one’s daughter questioned in this fashion. I wish 
you had told the story differently, Christopher. If 
you persist in continuing it, do, pray, disguise the 
facts in some way.” 

“ Shall you relate that scandal about Mrs. Mitch- 
ing ?” continues my youngest girl ; “ that affair 
which you were describing to mamma the other 
night ?” 

Before I can answer this last inquiry, my military 
son looks coaxingly at me, and says, “ I wish the 
governor would drop the story altogether, and say 
the opening of it was simply done in fun.” 

“ My dear children,” I reply, “ there is nothing to 
be ashamed of in this narrative. Our greatest men 
have made their own way, as I have done.” 


42 


CHEISTOPHER KENEICK. 


“ But they don’t tell everybody all about their 
antecedents,” says my son. 

“ There you are in error, my boy. Men who have 
risen above all other men like to talk of what they 
were. My old friend, George Stephenson, delighted 
to chat about his early struggles ; and so, I believe, 
did Telford, though I never met him.” 

‘‘ The Kenricks being of such a good family, as 
we know they are, how did they come down to be 
printers ?” asks my youngest daughter. 

“ Come down. Cissy !” I exclaim, warmly. Come 
down ! The press is the brightest gem in our es- 
cutcheon, my dear, as it is in that of the noble house 
of Stanhope.” 

“ There ! you have done it,” says my wife to Cissy. 

If your father has one particular hobby-horse which 
he is never tired of mounting, it is the press.” 

“ Come down !” I repeat, despite this side attack 
of Mrs. Kenrick’s. “ Printing has conferred the 
greatest of all earthly blessings upon poor humanity. 
Printers were men of special consideration not many 
years ago, and wore swords. Indeed, they may 
wear swords now ; the act bestowing upon them that 
privilege is stiU unrepealed.” 

“ You are quoting yourself, Christopher — quoting 
from your ‘ Essay on Printing,’ which appeared in 
‘ Bint’s Encyclopaedia,’ ” says my wife. 

I decline to be pulled up in this way. 

“ The story of printing would be a history of the 
world’s civilization; and the history of famous 


FAMILY CKITICISM. 


43 


printers would contain a list of tlie greatest men of 
this and every other age. To say nothing of Frank- 
lin, don’t you remember that the author you most 
admire, Douglas Jerrold, was a printer ?” 

I light a cheroot and walk to the balcony, which 
looks out upon a smooth, well-cut lawn, adorned 
with croquet hoops ; and I commend my own taste, 
though it be a painter’s trick, in having the pegs 
tipped with vermilion. 

“ Your father is as enthusiastic about printing as 
Mr. Caxton in Bulwer’s novel,” says my wife, who 
follows me, and links her arm in mine. She has no 
siUy, pretentious objections to a mild cigar. In 
fact, we often dine in “ motley” at Hallow Hall, and 
smoke cigars and cigarettes afterward, notwith- 
standing county prejudices. 

“ I don’t believe any one thinks the story is really 
true,” chimes in my eldest daughter, Bess, who is a 
particularly thoughtful lady, an admirer of Miss 
Martineau, and a worshipper of Miss Burdett 
Coutts and Florence Nightingale. 

I had been anxious to hear the opmion of my 
eldest daughter, and I listen attentively as she 
proceeds. 

“ It is an author’s license to say his tale is true, 
and his best security for interested readers that he 
takes his inspiration from real life. Whether this 
one be father’s real experience or not, the story is 
immensely entertaining.” 

‘‘ Thank you, Bess,” I reply, still smoking. 


44 


CHRISTOPHER KENRICK. 


“ May I offer a suggestion ?” she continues. 

“ Certainly.” 

“ Devote a chapter now and then to our conversa- 
tions about the story.” 

“A good idea,” I reply; “but, like nearly all 
good ideas, it is not a new one, I fear. Sir Edward 
Bulwer Lytton, who has already been mentioned, 
would tell you, I think, that the Caxtons talked in 
‘My Novel.’” 

“ An outline of our conversations would be in a 
different spirit altogether,” says Bess. “ We don’t 
talk like the Caxtons.” 

“ I wish we did,” I rejoin. 

“ Do you, father ? Do you, really ? I think they 
are a stilted lot, and not half so original as the 
Kenricks would be.” 

“ Vanity, my love, vanity,” I reply. 

“ At all events, if your story really be autobio- 
graphical, as you say it is, the chat of the hero and 
heroine upon the narrated incidents of their own lives 
would surely be an entirely new idea, and could not 
fail to be interesting. Wliat do you say, mother ?” 

“ I quite agree with you, love ; and there will be 
this advantage in it,” replies Mrs. Kenrick, “the 
heroine can correct any points to which she may 
take exception. There is no knowing what your 
father may write, in his present mood.” 

“ I demur to your corrections,” I reply. 

“ Then pray check your pen a little, ChristojDher,” 
says my wife, appealingly. 


FAMILY CRITICISM. 


45 


“ My pen is something like my old cob,” I say, in 
response. “ It will sometimes take its own course, 
in spite of its owner ; and I often find, when the 
journey is over, that I have acted wisely in giving 
the pair of them a loose rein.” 

How far I have done well in trusting my pen to 
carry me safely and creditably through this some- 
what extraneous chapter is for the reader to say. 

I pull the scampering quill up, after its long un- 
checked gallop, and collect my thoughts to regain 
the old highway in which we are to follow the vaga- 
ries of that romantic Stoneyfield printer, whose 
history crops up in my mind like a half-remembered 
dream, as if I really were not Christopher Kenrick 
at all. 


CHAPTEE VI. 


THE STOEY OF MY LIFE PEOGEESSES. 

Having sat up the remainder of the night on 
which I supped with Miss Belmont to finish my re- 
port of the magisterial proceedings before men- 
tioned, I was fully entitled to the leisure which I 
proposed for myself on the morrow. 

I marvel at the physical power that I possessed 
in those early days. To sit up half the night, and 
get up, bright and frisk, early the next morning, 
was a common thing. Sometimes I did not go 
to bed at all. In the height of that shorthand 
agony, when I was getting into my mind Mr. 
Harding’s strange characters, I have sat up for 
several nights in a week. It is true, I often looked 
pale and ill ; but a little additional rest soon put me 
right again, and I went on learning my newspaper 
lesson and working out my destiny. 

After rehearsal on this next day, I dived up that 
smudgy passage beyond which Miss Belmont lodged, 
and asked her if she would like to see some of the 
lions of Lindford. 

The lady was most gracious. She thanked me for 
this mark of attention, and said she would accom- 
pany me with pleasure. I see her now in a light 


THE STOEY OF MY LIFE PEOGEESSES. 


47 


muslin dress (a little dingy in appearance), a Galway 
cloak, and a bonnet trimmed with blue. I see her 
companion in a suit of loose gray clothes, with a 
cane under his arm, a black hat just a trifle on one 
side of his head, and a certain amount of swagger 
in his gait. They are an odd-looking couple. I do 
not wonder that people look twice at them as they 
pass along the High Street. I remember to have 
heard over and over again the remarks of one citi- 
zen to another, in an undertone, “ That’s Miss Bel- 
mont,” and once I distinctly noted a voice saying, 
“ And that’s Mr. Kenrick.” 

Here was fame indeed ! I am free to confess that 
this public recognition was sweet to me then, 
whether my momentary fame arose from my posi- 
tion on the press, or from the fact that I was walk- 
ing with Miss Julia Belmont, from the Theatres 
Boyal Drury Lane and Haymarket. 

How the old street comes up in my memory, with 
its lines of quiet shops intermingled with quieter 
private houses ! On the left by the bridge is the 
ancient conduit. Further on we pass beneath the 
Koman arch. Then we climb up the long steep hill 
which is crowned by the cathedral and castle. 

There is a social legend to this day amongst the 
inhabitants of the hill, that they are the aristocracy 
of Lindford. This is not believed in by the people 
below ; but the hillites frequently give their neigh- 
bors of the plain startling illustrations of their own 
faith. An uphill lady will not meet a lady from 


48 


CHRISTOPHEE KENRICK. 


regions of the bridge. An uphill professional looks 
down, in more senses than one, upon the profession- 
als below. An uphill tradesman sneers at a below- 
the-hill one. An uphill washerwoman would not 
demean herself by scouring the linen of a person 
who resided downhill. 

These distinctions of Lindford society created a 
perpetual feud between Uphill and Downhill, and 
there was no chance of settling the differences of 
the two sections of the community, for the reason 
that the uphill division was being continually 
strengthened by a desertion from below. The de- 
serter usually turned out to be the fiercest asserter 
of the truth of the aristocratic legend of uphill 
caste. 

I explained this Gulliverian kind of difficulty in 
the social relations of* Lindford to Miss Belmont, 
who was particularly amused at my recital. 

“ It is lucky for the theatre that the house is built 
between uphill and downhill,” she said. 

“ Luckier that it is more uphill than down,” I 
said, “ or Lindford would never have seen Miss Bel- 
mont. Two yards further downhill, and the theatre 
would have been given up to strollers and vaga- 
bonds. Uphill would not have supported it, and 
Downhill could not have afforded the luxury all to 
itself.” 

“ Do you like living in such a place as this, Mr. 
Kenrick ? Would you not rather be in London ?” 

“ I like Lindford,” I said, “ and I never was in 


THE STORY OF MY LIFE PROGRESSES. 


49 


London but once. Stay, I have been in London 
twice ; once when I passed through it by coach on 
my w^ay to Stoneyfield. I was only four months old, 
however, then, and could not be said to have taken 
much notice of what I saw. A second time I was in 
London when I was fourteen, and my memory is 
confused concerning the great Babylon’s appear- 
ance on that occasion. My father took me by the 
first ‘ cheap train’ which had ever started from 
Stoneyfield, and I remember that he beat me on the 
return journey, because I nearly fell through the 
window of the carriage in my anxiety to see some 
boats on a river which we were passing.” 

“ You are a strange boy, Mr. Kenrick,” said the 
actress. 

She evidently regarded me as a sort of human 
curiosity. I felt fiattered that I had made so much 
impression upon a lady of such distinguished merit. 

I showed Miss Belmont the exterior of the castle, 
pointed out to her the tower where criminals under- 
vrent their sentence of death, and then we strolled 
through the cathedral. 

The legend of the two painted windows in the 
transept was unknowm to her. 

“ That window,” I said, pointing to the one on my 
right, “ was the work of the master, and this,” 
pointing to that on my left, “ was the work of his 
apprentice. Both windows were uncovered in one 
day, years and years ago. Each artist stood on the 
parapet there, near his own w^ork. The master’s 


50 


CHEISTOPHER KENRICK. 


was uncovered first, and then the man’s was un- 
covered. The man’s was by far the finest window 
of the two. So great was the master’s chagrin, that 
he threw himself to the ground ; and that mark by 
your foot is a blood stain.” 

As I concluded. Miss Belmont quite started at the 
idea of standing by the poor fellow’s blood. She 
had taken in the whole story with the utmost reliance 
upon its truth. 

I did not think you were so sensitive,” I said. 

“ You told the story with such earnestness, and 
made your point so dramatically, that I could feel 
the blood on my foot. You would make an actor, 
sir,” replied Miss Belmont, looking at me without 
the least cynical expression. 

“ Of course the story is only legendary,” I said. 

“ It is much more like truth than that wretched 
feud of Uphill and Downhill, which is as bad as the 
Lilliputian quarrel about the eggs, or that stupid 
business in the ‘Corsican Brothers.’ ” 

“ Over the college yard, and down yon slope,” I 
said, when we were once more outside the cathedral, 
“ are the ruins of a monkish chapel. 'Would you like 
to walk as far?” 

“ I am quite in your hands,” said Miss Belmont, 
pleasantly. “ You have afforded me so much pleas- 
ure, that I leave the conclusion of our walk to your 
own selection. I have only to beg that you give me 
time to get to the theatre by half-past six.” 

So we rambled to the monk’s chapel, and there 


THE STOEY OF MY LIFE PKOGEESSES. 


51 


we sat down beneath the trees, and saw the lazy 
barges, with the big brown bat’s-wing sails, going 
down the quiet, still river. 

‘‘ This is delicious,” said Miss Belmont. “ How I 
envy girls who live by quiet places like these, girls 
who play their parts in a real world, with real 
abbeys and real trees and real water ! It is a weary 
life that of an actress.” 

“ Are you in earnest ?” I said. 

“ I was never more so. You see the stage from 
the front ; you know nothing of the miserable heart- 
burnings behind. It is true I am not much annoyed 
now ; I have certain business to do, and I do it ; 
but at first> oh, it was a weary, wretched life.” 

“ I should have thought it the happiest life of all. 
The whole world seems to envy you.” 

‘‘ The whole world looks down upon us. "Wliy 
even the ladies of Downhill would hardly deign to 
receive Julia Belmont as their visitor ; and the Up- 
hill women would not think me entitled to a seat in 
the servants’ hall,” said Miss Belmont bitterly. 

‘‘ Surely this cannot be true ?” 

“ It is true,” said Miss Belmont ; and at that 
moment I startled her with an exclamation of joy 
and surprise. 

Beneath the trees and round by the back of the old 
chapel, Avith a little basket in her hand full of wild- 
flowers, and an infant jumping on in front, passed 
that pretty girl in the lama frock. 

“What is tlie matter?” Miss Belmont asked. 


52 


CHEISTOPHEE KENEICK. 


“ Oil, is not that a pretty girl?” I exclaimed. 

‘‘Eather prett}^” said the actress; “but what of 
her? Did you never see a pretty girl before?” 

“ Only once, and then it was this same young lady.” 

Miss Belmont must have known this was not said 
out of any disrespect to her, or with a view to de- 
preciate her charms ; but she changed the subject 
somewhat coldly, and by and by suggested that it 
was time to return home. 

That night Miss Belmont played better than I had 
ever seen her play before. The piece was Lytton 
Bulwer’s new play of “ The Lady of Lyons,” which 
had only recently been done at Covent Garden with 
Macready as Melnotte, and Miss Helen Faucit as Pau- 
line. All Lindford was at the theatre, not only to 
see the new play, but to see the piece which Bulwer 
had written, because the author represented the free 
and independent electors of Lindford in the Com- 
mons House of Parliament. 

Uphill and Downhill mustered in force, I say, at 
the Lindford theatre. The orchestra had been 
strengthened for the occasion, and special pro- 
grammes printed for the dress-circle. Eight oppo- 
site to my seat sat the young lady with blue eyes 
and brown curls, accompanied by the darker beauty, 
her sister, a lolloping-looking countryman, and a 
chubby-faced lady, who seemed to be a woman in 
some authority over the others ; for she sat in the 
best seat, and cowed the blue eyes now and then 
with an angry remark. 


THE STOKY OF MY LIFE PROGKESSES. 


53 


From the stage to the seat opposite, my eyes wan- 
dered all the night. The young lady in white mus- 
lin (she had changed her lama frock) caught me 
gazing admiringly at her more than once, and with- 
out seeming displeased ; but her more discreet sis- 
ter of the dark hair palpably nudged her once when 
she seemed, I thought, about to convey as much in a 
pleasant smile. 

And all the time Julia Belmont played Pauhne 
with a grace and vigor which I have rarely seen ex- 
celled. She looked the part to perfection. When 
she confided the whole secret of her love to the 
cloaked figure, when she said she would rather share 
Melnotte’s lowest lot than wear the crown the Bour- 
bon lost, the house almost sobbed with sympathy. 
Uphill and Downhill were surprised into a sudden 
exhibition of real feeling, and, for my own part, I 
could not see the lady in the curls for tears. 

How Julia Belmont must have hated me if she 
could have known that in these latter scenes I fan- 
cied myself Melnotte, and allotted the part of Pau- 
line to that unknown girl with the blue eyes and the 
soft sweet smile ! 


CHAPTEE YII. 


THE BELLE OF BEOMFIELD EOAD. 

How it came about that at this early period of my 
life I might have offered my hand to, and been ac- 
cepted by, three different marriageable young ladies, 
is a mystery to me even now. In these fashionable 
days a person of my humble position might sigh in 
vain for the smallest recognition from ladies even of 
the modest rank of the trio which honored me with 
such complimentary recognition. All classes of so- 
ciety have changed very considerably in thirty 
years. 

It is quite certain that I must have been a very 
manly youth, unless the explanation is to be found 
in the fact that one young lady, who was evidently 
desirous to win my good opinion, paid similar court 
to every other gentleman ; the other. Miss Belmont, 
was attracted by my somewhat unsophisticated man- 
ners ; and the third was simply my Fate, as novel- 
ists say, and there an end. 

It seemed to me as if I were destined to know all 
the beauties of Lindford, before I made the acquaint- 
ance of that fair apparition in the lama frock, who 


THE BELLE OF BROMFIELD ROAD. 


55 


was to make all other attractions pale their ineffec- 
tual fires. 

Miss Amelia Birt was a celebrated young lady in 
Lindford when I was matriculating in the journal- 
istic school of that midland district of England, and 
I was surprised to discover in this heUe of Bromfield 
Koad, the sister-in-law of an old friend of the Ken- 
ricks. 

My introduction to her came about in this wise : — 

One morning, when I was poring over that ever- 
lasting note-book in the reporter’s room of the Lind- 
ford Heraldy there entered to me Mr. Kichard Fitz- 
walton, whom I had known at Stoneyfield. 

“ How do you do, young Kenrick?” he said, in his 
gushing way ; “ how do you do, young Kenrick?” 

“ Very well, thank you,” I said ; “ how do you do ?” 

“ Capital,” said Mr. Fitzwalton ; “ why, how long 
have you been here ?” 

‘‘ Ever so long,” I said. 

‘‘ I saw your father last week, and promised to call 
and see how you were getting on.” 

“Oh!” I said, brightening up. “And how was 
my father, sir ?” 

“ Very well, indeed.” 

“ Did he say much about me ?” 

“Said you’d run away, and all that sort of thing.” 

“No more ? Is he coming to see me ?” 

“ Yes ; I think he said he should come to see you.” 

“ And my mother, sir ?” 

“ Very unwell, indeed ; very unwell.” 


56 


CHRISTOPHER KENRICK. 


‘‘ Did they seem hurt at my staying away ?” I 
said. “ Did they say they missed me much ?” 

“ No, not they : you were a great source of annoy- 
ance to them, weren’t you, young Kenrick, eh ?” 

I did not answer this last question. It cut me to 
the quick to feel that I was not missed, that I was not 
lamented. Moreover, I thought there was a patron- 
izing style in Mr. Fitzwalton’s address which was 
displeasing to me. I had mistaken my visitor in 
that respect. He was a good feUow, and a most 
hospitable, kindly gentleman. 

At Stoneyfield, the Fitzwaltons were aristocrats. 
Old Fitzwalton was a magistrate, hved in a great 
brick house, kept horses, and had all beggars im- 
prisoned. His son Eichard was a manufacturer on 
a large scale, but was unsuccessful. When the 
works closed, and the bankers returned Eichard’s 
checks, his father had to pay the insolvent’s debts. 
After that, Mr. Eichard ran away with a nursery- 
man’s daughter, married her, and took an appoint- 
ment as chief draughtsman in the great iron-works 
at Lindford, where he had resided some six months 
when he called upon me. 

Eichard Fitzwalton was decidedly handsome. 
About thirty years of age, he was a well-built, ath- 
letic-looking fellow, with light-brown hair and san- 
guine blue eyes. His costume always seemed made 
to match his complexion and manner. Everything 
he wore was loose and flowing. His collars were 
low and ample, his neckerchief always tied in a 


THE BELLE OF BROMFIELD ROAD. 


57 


sailor’s knot, liis trousers fastened round the waist 
with a belt. He never wore gloves, and he looked 
more like a yachtsman just come home from a pleas- 
ant voyage, than a draughtsman who had been 
sitting over a drawing-board at the Lindford iron- 
works. 

“ Will you come and see us, Master Eun- 
away?” he said, on this morning when he called 
upon me. 

“ I shall be very happy.” 

“ Burton Villa, Bromfield Eoad,” he said. “ We 
dine in the middle of the day. Will you come and 
have tea at six to-night ?” 

“ Thank you, I will.” 

‘‘ Put on your flannels, and we’ll have a pull after- 
ward.” 

“ All right,” I said, Fitzwalton’s geniality begin- 
ning to tell upon me. 

In the evening I presented myself at Burton 
Villa, which was prettily situated upon the slope of 
Bromfield Eoad, conveniently overlooking the county 
jail, where the melancholy wheel of the treadmill 
was continually going round. Beyond this there 
were a few trees and a bit of distant hill. 

I entered a small green gate, and found myself in 
a small walled garden, then under a small porch, and 
in two minutes afterward in a small hall, where I 
was received by a small lady — a piquant, bright 
little woman, with dark eyes and hair. 

“ Mr. Kenrick, I suppose ?” said the lady. 

3 * 


58 


CHEISTOPHER KENEICK. 


‘‘Yes,” I said, making my best bow. 

“ Very glad to see you. Come in. Richard will 
be here presently. My sister, Miss Amelia Birt, 
Mr. Kenrick.” 

Amelia was a young lady of most fair and fat pro- 
portions. She was dressed in the height of the 
fashion of those days, and wore an exceedingly low 
dress. She came forward, and offered me a fat, 
rosy little hand, and thereupon began to make love 
to me at once. Having fixed me with an endearing 
glance, she retired to her seat, and showed me a 
white, round arm, that was certainly pleasant to 
look upon. 

I imagine Miss Amelia was about the age of Julia 
Belmont, but she would have made two of that 
young lady in width, though she was considerably 
shorter in height. She wore her hair tightly bound 
to her head. Her eyes rested upon you with lan- 
guid, endearing glances. When she laughed she 
did so with a pretty little affectation, which she had 
acquired in an effort to hide a slight touch of decay 
in one of her front teeth. 

I could not but feel flattered to receive such 
marked attention as that with which Miss Amelia 
favored me ; but my conceit suffered a rude over- 
throw in days that followed, when I found that Miss 
Amelia made love to everybody. If she had no 
visitors on the spot to captivate and enthral with 
her languishing eyes, she sat at the window and 
pierced the hearts of passers-by. One conquest 


THE BELLE OF BROMFIELD KOAD. 


59 


was notliing to her. She went in for a whole host of 
suitors. She had no respect for persons. 

When Eichard Fitzwalton came, Amelia gave him 
a loud, bouncing kiss on the cheek before her sister, 
his wife, had time to speak ; whereupon that gentle- 
man said — 

“ Get on your linen togs after tea, we are going 
for a pull ; Christopher Kenrick can row.” 

“ I’m glad of that,” said Mrs. Fitzwalton, in her 
brisk, bright way. Let us have tea at once.” 

We had tea at once ; a substantial, north-midland 
tea : a nice little steak, some cold ham, hot muffins, 
and a dish of strawberries afterward. I sat near 
Miss Ameha. We talked together as if we had 
known each other for many years. I had been 
acquainted with her brother-in-law at Stoneyfield, 
but only through his father, wffio had taken a great 
deal of notice of me in that little bookseller’s shop. 
He had once invited me to go home with him and 
have a ride on one of his horses, which I had done 
to his cost and my own, breaking the horse’s knees, 
and narrowly escaping myself with a whole neck. 

After tea Miss Amelia came out in a dress and 
jacket of white linen, trimmed with blue. She took 
my arm wdth a charming familiarity that made me 
feel quite fast and manly. The people looked at us 
almost as much as they had looked at Miss Julia 
Belmont and her Guide to the curiosities of Lind- 
ford. 

By and by we arrived at the quiet, sluggish river, 


60 


CHRISTOPHER KENRICK. 


engaged onr boat, and started, Miss Amelia taking 
the ribbons to steer, Mrs. Fitzwalton establishing 
herself near me in the bow, and Mr. Fitzwalton 
taking stroke oar. 

We had hardly got well under way when we saw 
a pair-oared boat ahead of us. 

“That’s Tom Folgate’s boat,” said Fitzwalton, 
looking round. “ Let’s pull up and have a race.” 

On reaching Folgate’s boat we found it occupied, 
as our own was, by two gentlemen and two ladies. 

“ How’s the fair coxswain?” asked one, their bow 
oar. 

“ Very well, thank you,” said Miss Amelia, taking 
the title as though it had been honorably conferred 
by some powerful institution. 

“ Tom, we are going to race you.” 

“ All right — fire away, sir,” said Tom. “ Amelia 
shaU start us.” 

“ One, two, three !” said Amelia, with a little 
laugh, carefully managed with respect to that 
decayed tooth. 

Away went the two boats. We all rowed in down- 
right earnest. The ladies cheered us on. I pulled 
with all my might. Only a vigorous spurt now and 
then, on either side, made the slightest difference. 
Once we had nearly fouled our opponents, but this 
was in the fair coxswain’s efforts to get the best water 
at a bend of the river. The young lady was succes- 
ful, which made up somewhat for the additional 
weight we carried in our stem. 


THE BELLE OF BROMFIELD ROAD. 


61 


When the Halfway House came in sight we were 
slightly in advance. At the goal we had the advan- 
tage by nearly a boat’s length. Then, in an ex- 
hausted condition, we laid down our oars. It was 
with no little difficulty that I landed after this ter- 
rible exertion. My fagged look excited the interest 
of the ladies and the sympathy of the men. 

Tom Folgate said I was a plucky httle beggar. 
He had heard of me before, and was very glad to 
meet me — yes, and to be beaten by me, too. 

“ Heard of me !” I said, in some surprise, when 
Tom handed me a foaming bumper of shandy-gaff. 

“ Yes. Why old Hitching is continually talking 
about you.” 

“ Indeed,” I said. 

“ Does nothing else ; you’re quite a hero in his 
eyes ; and Mrs. Hitching says you are the dearest 
young man.” 

Then all the ladies laughed, and Miss Amelia re- 
peated Tom’s words, “ The dearest young man !” 

I felt a little confused at this, but I had presence 
of mind enough to say — 

“ Then here’s Mrs. Mitching’s health !” 

“ Bravo !” exclaimed Tom Folgate. “ Sweet Ann 
Hitching !” 

The ladies tittered again. Then, at the suggest- 
ion of Mr. Fitzwalton, we walked out into the Half- 
way House tea-gardens, and thence into the open 
meadows beyond, where every little breeze brought 
with it the scent of newly-mown hay. Here we met 


62 


CHRISTOPHEE KENRICK. 


another aquatic party, and Miss Amelia considering 
it necessary to captivate a youth of fifteen summers 
and his father, Tom Folgate and I had an opportu- 
nity for the exchange of further compliments. 

Tom Folgate stood, at least, six feet in his boating 
shoes; but his was one of those compact figures 
that look much less than they are. He had a dark 
blue eye, prominent lips, a well- cut nose, and red, 
crisp, curly hair. All his actions denoted firmness 
and passion. He had a< long, manly stride ; and a 
loud, full laugh. He spoke in a deep voice ; said 
cynical things with a noisy kind of relish ; and swept 
away all minor considerations of the proprieties with 
a contemptuous flourish of his arm. 

“ I don’t set up for a saint,” he would say ; nor 
any such dam nonsense. I have seen the world, and 
know what humbug there is in it. Don’t talk to me 
of virtue and patriotism. Eot ! I know all about it, 
Kenny, my boy ; but it is all right to believe in it, 
if you can. Don’t let me influence you. Look at 
Fitzwalton’s sister-in-law : there’s an example of the 
world, if you like : as hollow as hell !” 

This was Tom Folgate’s language to me after we 
had all returned to Lindford that night, and after I 
had smoked two cigars with him at his rooms. 

“ I like you, Christopher Kenrick; and I shall call 
you Kenny, as Mr. Mitching does. Eh ? What do 
you say ? May I ?” 

Oh, yes,” I said. 

“ You call me Tom, and let us be friends. It’s a 


THE BELLE OF BROMFIELD ROAD. 


63 


twopenny-halfpenny hole, this Lindford ; and a fresh- 
hearted friend, like yon, is a novelty here, I can 
tell you. I like a fellow who’s had the pluck to cut 
his home and stand up for himself.” 

“ I have sometimes felt sorry that I did so,” I 
replied. 

“You’ve got sensibilities, I suppose,” replied 
Tom. “ Beastly things to have ; get rid of them at 
once. Don’t care for anything or anybody ; work 
your own way according to your lights ; don’t be 
licked in anything you undertake ; and let sensibili- 
ties and all such rot go to the devil.” 

It was not long before I discovered that Tom Fol- 
gate, like many others, did not altogether act upon 
his own advice. His was a strange, contradictory, 
passionate nature. This cynical fellow had evidently 
been struggling with sensibilities all his Hfe. A 
wise writer has somewhere said that fine sensibilities 
are like woodbines, delightful luxuries of beauty to 
twine round a solid, upright stem of understand- 
ing ; but very poor things if, unsustained by strength, 
they are left to creep along the ground. My dear 
friend Tom had evidently been hampered with sen- 
sibilities ; had thrown them down, and left them to 
creep and trail where they pleased, to be trodden on 
and bruised, and he had felt their wounds. 

Bailing against everything, he reminded me of the 
incident which Goldsmith relates in his “ Letters 
from a Citizen of the World,” where the man in 
black encounters the beggars, and whilst talking of 


64 


CHEISTOPHER KENRICK. 


the enlargement of prisons and the crime of beggary, 
relieves the mendicants on the sly. I cannot say 
that, in the end, this judgment of mine was alto- 
gether verified. I would not have upon my soul the 
crimes of Tom Folgate for Yalentine’s 

“ Twenty seas, if all their sands were pearls, 

The water nectar, and the rocks pure gold.” 


CHAPTER VIII. 


MRS. HITCHING GIVES A PARTY. 

“We are going to have a few friends this even- 
ing, Mr. Kenrick ; will you come ?” said Mrs. Mitch- 
ing, addressing me a few days after my boating 
excursion. 

Duly appreciating the honor thus conferred upon 
me, I accepted the invitation with pleasure. I told 
Mrs. Mitching that I felt honored by her kind re- 
membrance of me. 

“ Bring your violin : we intend to have a little 
music. Mr. Tom Folgate is coming ; Mr. Wilton 
and the Miss Wiltons, Mr. Fitzwalton and Mrs. 
Eitzwalton, and some other people are expected.” 

Mr. Mitching was in a desperate fuss when I 
arrived, balancing his eye-glasses at everything with 
praiseworthy perseverance, and now and then saying 
pleasant things to his wife with a becoming amount 
of admiration and humility. Mr. Mitching never 
made speeches to his wife, but he did to everybody 
else. He button-holed people like the Ancient Mar- 
iner, and addressed them as if they were the Lind- 
ford Town Council or the British House of Com- 
mons. But Mrs. Mitching would not consent to be 
treated as an audience ; and the pompous old gen- 


66 


CHEISTOPHER KENRICK. 


tleman respected any wish of Mrs. Mitching’s with 
awe and reverence. 

“ The first arrival, Christopher,” he said, as I en- 
tered. “ The first arrival ; that’s right. Punctuality, 
my boy, is the soul of success punctuality, my 
boy, is appreciated at the lAndford Herald ; punc- 
tuality — ” 

“ George ! let us ignore the shop to-night,” said 
Mrs. Mitching. 

“ Certainly, my dear,” said Mr. Mitching, in reply. 

“ And don’t make speeches at present.” 

“ By no means, my love ; I was merely remarking 
that—” 

“ Then, don’t remark, my love. Mr. Kenrick, how 
do you do ?” 

She was in one of her grand moods, this pretty 
little woman; and Mr. Mitching knew how to be 
submissive upon such occasions. 

“ I hope you are well, Mr. Kenrick ?” said the 
lady, looking down at her white gauzy dress, and 
then surveying herself in a mirror where her pinky- 
white complexion, her blue eyes (set off with just a 
gentle shadow, put on with a camel-hair brush), 
looked still more enchanting by the aid of a little 
distance and a sombre wall-paper. 

How do I know that Mrs. Mitching used artificial 
means to enhance her beauty? Never mind, my 
friend. You may take it for granted that I will not 
deceive you. Mrs. Mitching was a beautiful woman ; 
but she was not content to be simply beautiful, she 


MKS. HITCHING GIVES A PAETY. 


67 


wislied to be altogether overpowering ; so she in- 
creased the brilliant dazzle of her eyes by artificial 
means ; and I am not prepared to say whether she 
did not paint, ever so little — ever so little, I say, be- 
cause she might have had all that rosy bloom with- 
out painting. She was one of the prettiest, most 
fascinating little women I ever saw in my life ; but 
there was at times just a trifle of mystery in her 
conversation, and just a twinkle of devilry in her 
eye, that it were mere folly to try and interpret. 

“ There ! that is your editor’s ring, I am sure. Go 
and meet him, George.” 

Mr. Hitching thereupon darted to the drawing- 
room door, and received Mr. Noel Stanton, the con- 
ductor of that illustrious journal at Lindford, upon 
which I had the honor of a leading appointment. 

Mr. Noel Stanton was a gentleman who believed 
in one man, who had the highest respect for the 
genius and ability, and experience and honor of one 
individual. Mr. Noel Stanton believed in Mr. Noel 
Stanton. It was the leading principle of his hfe to 
assert the superiority of Mr. Stanton’s judgment and 
Mr. Stanton’s ability. No matter that you looked 
in vain for any brilliant example of Mr. Noel Stan- 
ton’s genius in the Her aid ^ Mr. Stanton Imew every- 
thing, could do everything, had seen everything. 
On the smallest provocation he would take off his 
spectacles, rub them with his silk handkerchief, and 
tell you so. Yet he was evidently a young man. If 
you threw out a gentle hint that he was young to 


68 


CHRISTOPHER KENRICK. 


liave had so much experience, he would tell you 
that he had lived; yes, sir, lived. He had not 
muddled away existence ; he had not been in Lind- 
ford all his life. On the contrary, he had only been 
in Lindford three years, during which time he had 
made himself too valuable to the place for Lindford 
ever to do without him. Was he not the life and 
soul of the Herald? Had he not put dowm the 
bumptiousness of the opponents whom he found 
rampant against Mitching’s paper when first he 
came to Lindford ? Had he not asserted the power 
and independence of the press against the overbear- 
ing insolence of the lord-lieutenant? Had he not 
defeated, in a famous controversy, the most power- 
ful cleric in the city ? And, above all, had he not 
increased by many hundreds the circulation of the 
Herald amongst the higher and most intellectual 
classes of Lindfordshire ? If you had the slightest 
doubt upon these points, Mr. Noel Stanton would 
wipe his glasses, and convince you, without for one 
moment begrudging the valuable time which his ex- 
planations would occupy. He would dine with you 
afterward, and win your money at whist or billiards 
with a degree of condescension and magnanimity 
perfectly charming to behold. 

“ Ah ! how do you do, Mr. Stanton? how are you, 
sir ?” Mr. Mitching fussily exclaimed, when the il- 
lustrious editor appeared. 

‘‘How do you do, Mitching?” said Mr. Noel 
Stanton, in reply, adjusting his shining spectacles 


MRS. MITCHING GIVES A PARTY. 


69 


with both hands. ‘‘Yery warm, Hitching. Ah! 
Mrs. Hitching, I hope I find you well this evening ?” 

If there was one man whom I admired rfp to the 
commencement of Mrs. Mitching’s party, for his in- 
tellectual power, and his general knowledge of the 
world, above all others, it was Hr. Noel Stanton. I 
checked oJff in my mind his personal attributes and 
his wise sayings with great relish. I little thought 
that the day would arrive when I should square up 
at him in his own room, and plant my right full 
upon his proboscis, as they would say in the ring. 

He looked quite distingue on the night of this 
famous party. His blue frock-coat, light waistcoat, 
and gray trousers were perfect. He explained to 
Mrs. Hitching that he had not dressed de rigueur, 
understanding that the entertainment was not a 
dinner-party, but rather a pleasant evening meeting 
en famille. He adjusted his stiff stick-up collars as 
he said so, and wriggled further into his coat. His 
hair was in elaborate, frizzy curls. His whiskers, 
in furzy-looking clumps, rested upon his collar, and 
made his sharp, incisive nose look all the sharper. 

Hr. Hitching always subsided in presence of Hr. 
Noel Stanton. The bright, sparkling spectacles of 
the editor seemed to cut out even Hr. Hitching’s 
heavy gold rimmers, which the proprietor balanced 
in vain on his capacious nose, or poised argumenta- 
tively between the thumb and finger of his right 
hand. Hr. Stanton had only to take off his light 
and elegant spectacles, rub them deliberately, and 


70 


CHRISTOPHER KENRICK. 


then replace them, to overawe and completely van- 
quish the gentleman of the gold rimmers. This 
reminds me that the more irreverent citizens of 
Lindford called Mr. Noel Stanton “ Specs,” varied 
occasionally with the cognomen of “ Collars.” 
Wherever you saw him, your eye would always fall, 
in the first place, upon his spectacles, the dazzling 
brilliancy of which sent you speedily in retreat to 
his collars. I hold that there is character in shirt 
collars. You could have sworn, had you seen Mr. 
Stanton’s collars hanging out to dry, as I often did, 
that they belonged to an extraordinary man. 

Well, Mr. Stanton had hardly arrived when my 
big, red-headed friend Tom Folgate arrived also, 
and made a great point of shaking hands with me, 
and complimenting me upon my boating capabili- 
ties. 

Tom was got tip in full evening dress ; and, if he 
had been a newspaper man, he would probably have 
cut out Mr. Stanton in my estimation ; but Mr. Fol- 
gate was only an engineer, and, what is more, he 
had rather a mean opinion of the press and press 
men. He used to call Mr. Mitching an old fool, 
and Noel Stanton a conceited ass, which, for a time, 
rather lowered Mr. Folgate in my estimation, though 
there was a certain manliness about Tom which 
could not fail to impress everybody in his favor. 

The next arrival was my gushing friend, Mr. Fitz- 
walton, his bright-eyed little wife, and his lazy, lan- 
guishing, buxom sister-in-law. Miss Birt. 


MKS. MITCHING GIVES A PARTY. 


71 


Whilst Mrs. MitchiDg was doing the amiable, as 
the modern phrase goes, to Mrs. Fitzwalton and her 
cheery, chatty consort, Mr. Mitching tried to make 
a grand speech to Miss Birt in a quiet corner ; but 
the plot was discovered by Mrs. Mitching, who 
speedily defeated the daring rebel, thus enabling 
Miss Birt to take the seat which I gallantly olfered 
to her ; whereupon Miss Birt smiled most pleasantly 
upon me, with due and proper consideration for her 
decayed tooth. 

It seemed as if it were the fate of that young lady 
in the lama frock to flash upon me and surprise me 
into inextricable confusion upon all occasions. I 
had scarcely told Miss Birt how glad I was that she 
had come, when I looked up to discover in the 
youngest Miss Wilton my unknown beauty. For a 
moment I seemed to lose myself in a kind of mental 
fog, that left me blushing and bowing to the two 
Miss Wiltons, whom I had flrst seen on that mem- 
orable evening in the High Street. 

Tea and coffee were being handed about, and 
some other persons had come in, before I quite 
knew what I was doing. Indeed, it was not until 
Miss Birt had plunged through the heat and turmoil 
of The Battle of the Prague,” and got into the 
cries of the wounded and all the other pomp and 
circumstance of that valuable composition, that I 
recovered my self-possession sufficiently to speak to 
Esther Wilton’s mother, 

Mr. Noel Stanton led the fat and fair Miss Birt, 


72 


CHRISTOPHEE KENRICK. 


in a high, state of excitement, to a seat close by my 
chair, and she at once proceeded to assail the edi- 
torial heart in a manner that was by no means disa- 
greeable to Mr. Stanton, who proceeded to impress 
her, in return, with an account of his distinguished 
family connections, and of certain romantic inci- 
dents in his remarkable journalistic career. 

Presently I found courage enough to address 
Esther Wilton, and I am bound to say that she did 
not seem quite so self-possessed as I have seen her 
since upon many more trying occasions than that 
of an evening party. I have a faculty for remem- 
bering little details of manner and expression long 
after they occur, and I shall never forget the soft 
tremor of her first words, and the slightly nervous 
action of that tantalizing little fan behind which she 
occasionally hid a blush or a smile. 

She was a perfect picture of health, this round, 
dimpled beauty, with pouting lips and supple waist. 
Her mother was evidently a quiet, weak, affectionate, 
silly old woman, and her sister Emmy, a sharp, clever 
girl. Between them they succeeded in keeping 
Esther in a constant state of alarm as to her gen- 
eral behavior. Esther had the manner of a pretty 
slave, who had not her own way, and was continu- 
ally throwing out appeals for assistance. And no 
wonder; for she had two other sisters besides 
Emmy, two elderly sisters, the offspring of Mrs. 
Wilton’s first husband, and these ladies had suc- 
ceeded in getting the upper hand over Mrs. Wil- 


MES. HITCHING GIVES A PARTY. 


73 


ton, though their influence was sometimes checked 
by the bad conduct of a married brother, who had 
been their especial favorite, and who occasionally 
amused himself by turning his wife and family out 
of doors, whilst he smashed all his furniture, and 
went to sleep blind drunk amidst the debris. 

This, however, is by the way. Let us return to 
that hot, stuffy drawing-room, and listen to the 
serio-comic, half-sentimental, half-humorous ballad 
which Mrs. Hitching is singing with so much zest ; 
whilst Tom Folgate turns over the leaves and looks 
into her languishing eyes, evidently to the discom- 
fort of Miss Emmy Wilton, who is watching him 
from a distance. 

“ Thank you. Yery well sung, indeed,” said Mr. 
Noel Stanton, when the song was flnished ; whilst 
Tom Eolgate took the lady’s hand like a prince on 
the stage, and led her to her seat, where, after care- 
fully disposing her dress to the best advantage, she' 
fell back into a sea of muslin, and looked provokingly 
bewitching. By and by Tom Eolgate went and sat 
near Miss Emmy Wilton, who treated him with 
marked coldness, and cast a scornful glance at 
Mrs. Hitching. 

Then I was called upon to produce my violin, which 
I did with more than my customary nervousness. 
Miss Emmy Wilton accompanied me, at sight, in a 
little piece arranged by a noted performer. We got 
through the duet without actually breaking down ; 
but it was a melancholy exhibition, and with the 
4 


74 


CHRISTOPHER KENRICK. 


exception of Esther Wilton and her mother, this 
seemed to be the opinion of the audience generally. 
I hid my diminished head in a corner afterward, 
close by Esther and her mother. The former said, 
with a sweet smile, that I played beautifully ; whilst 
Mrs. Wilton, endorsing the opinion of her daughter, 
went into the family history of two persons who 
played the fiddle when she was a girl, one of whom 
cut his throat during a seizure at his house for rent ; 
and the other was made fun of for many a year, be- 
cause during an attack upon him by robbers he was 
reported to have exclaimed, “ Take my life, but spare 
my fiddle !” 

I smile at myself now when I think how compla- 
cently I sat and listened to that poor old woman’s 
stories, laughing promptly at the proper place, and 
sighing when she did. Esther looked at me and 
smiled, and I made up my mind to summon up 
courage enough to take her down to supper; but 
during a momentary word or two with Tom Folgate, 
that wretched “ Specs ” came forward and secured 
Esther — that wretched “ Specs,” I say, for I hated 
him just then with a mortal hatred ; and as I blun- 
dered down-stairs with some wheezy old woman, 
whose name I had not heard, I muttered to myself, 
“ Conceited ass !” “ Specs !” “ Collars !” and a va- 
riety of other epithets by no means complimentary 
to Mr. Noel Stanton. 

How it came about that Miss Birt allowed Mr. 
Stanton to escape her is a mystery to me, even now, 


MRS. MITCHING GIVES A PARTY. 


75 


unless it arose out of some blundering upon the 
part of Mr. Mitching, who walked off fussily with 
Miss Birt, before Mrs. Mitching had time to make 
him take down Mrs. Wilton. 

During supper I looked across two lobsters, a 
pair of chickens, and a ham at Miss Esther Wilton. 
She was certainly not displeased at my most unmis- 
takable glances of love and admiration. I drank 
champagne in an abstracted sort of way, and nib- 
bled the crust of a hard-baked roll; but I ate 
nothing. I drank champagne, and composed im- 
aginary verses in praise of Esther’s beauty, and 
gradually found myself getting away into a world of 
my own, in which there was a multitude of lights, 
a confused mass of faces, and a jumble of lobsters, 
chickens, jellies, and other dainties, which people were 
talking about and praising in a stupid, idiotic kind of 
manner that seemed puzzling, but not at all strange. 

I remember quietly slipping out into the hall, and 
leaving the house in a strange, wandering fashion, 
and sitting in the porch of the old church close by, 
until I heard a voice that sounded like Mrs. Mitch- 
ing’s say, in a whisper, “ Good-bye, dear.” Then 
I saw Tom Folgate, with his hands in his pockets, 
lounge past me, and heard him sigh a great sigh, 
whether of pain or relief, I could not distinguish. 

“ Hollo, sir !” I said. 

“Hollo! Who are you? Why, Kenny, as I 
live!” replied Tom. “Everybody was wondering 
what had become of you.” 


76 


CHRISTOPHER KENRICK. 


‘‘Indeed, sir?” I stammered. 

“ Yes. Weren’t you well, eli, Kenny ?” 

“No, I was not well,” I replied. 

Then Tom laughed a loud laugh, and took me by 
the arm, and said, “ Come along, my boy.” 

And we went home, Tom laughing all the way at 
my abuse of “ Specs,” whom I did not hesitate to 
denounce as a conceited stuck-up ass, which was a 
most ungrateful thing to do, seeing that he had al- 
ways behaved most kindly to me ; but it is human 
nature to let the smallest offence shut your mind to 
the memory of former kindnesses. Moreover, it 
often happens that you dislike a person on account 
of some unintentional wrong on his part, and you 
never give him the opportunity to set himself right 
with you. I quite hated Noel Stanton on that 
night, and I am sure he does not know to this day 
that he annoyed me by taking Esther Wilton down 
to supper. 

When I left Tom Eolgate at my own door, or 
rather when he left me there, he pointed to a light 
in a bedroom window about six houses off, and at 
right angles with mine. 

“ You see that, Kenny ?” he said. 

“ Yes,” I said. 

“ That is Esther Wilton’s room. I fancy Emmy 
and Esther sleep together.” 

When I said “ Good-night,” and the sound of 
Tom’s firm tread began to grow faint in the distance, 
the light at Wilton’s disappeared, and a head cov- 


MBS. HITCHING GIVES A PARTY. 


77 


ered with curls looked out for a moment into the 
quiet night. 

If “ hanging and wiving goes by destiny,” as the 
ancient saying quoted by Nerissa hath it, what is my 
destiny? I remember to have asked myself as I 
stood there with my latch-key watching, in a very 
maudlin fashion, I fear, the window where that dear 
head appeared. It occurred to me that it would be 
a good thing to settle that point as soon as possible. 
If I could have said, “ Draw the curtain, Nerissa, and 
bring me to that mysterious casket,” I would have 
sealed my fate at once. I was not accustomed to 
drink champagne in heated rooms, and Tom Fol- 
gate should have opened that disgusting door of 
Mrs. Nixon’s for me. It is an old joke to say that 
somebody had tampered with the lock. I don’t 
know how long I stood upon that lonely doorstep. 
There is an incident in “ Hard Times” which made 
a great impression upon me when I read it. Two 
fellows intoxicated on the highway are asked for as- 
sistance in a case of life and death. One of them 
comprehends presently what is expected of him, and 
plunging his face into a pool of cold water, stands 
up before the half-crazed woman, sober and a man. 
There was no pool of cold water near Nixon’s, or I 
should have been glad of it ; for my head ached and 
my brain throbbed like an engine with extra duty 
imposed upon it. I am in doubt to this day how 
long it w^as before that obstinate lock yielded to my 


78 


CHRISTOPHER KENRICK. 


latch-key ; but I know I quoted Mr. Feeble over 
and over again, “ An’ it be my destiny, So ; an’ it be 
not. So but whether this had reference to the pos- 
sibility of my destiny leading me to wait on the door- 
step until the milk came in the morning, or applied 
to the chance of my marrying Esther Wilton, will 
always be involved amongst several other subjects 
of doubt associated with the closing scenes of Mrs. 
Mitching’s party. 



CHAPTEE IX. 


FAMILY CEITICISM ; DURING WHICH THE STORY GOES ON. 

“ I SUPPOSE you called upon the Wiltons the next 
day after the party, and left your card?” said my 
youngest daughter, Cissy, when we all sat out on the 
lawn for the ostensible purpose of talking about 
Christopher Kenrick’s early life. 

“ I did call, miss ; but as my card in those days 
was of a purely professional character, disclosing 
the fact that I was retained by the lAndford Herald, 
I did not leave it ; nor should I have called had not 
Mrs. Hitching taken an early opportunity on that 
next day, to ask me, when I did call, to be the bearer 
of her compliments and kind inquiries.” 

‘‘ Oh, pa, how thoughtless — and when you were in 
love with the youngest Miss Wilton, too!” said 
Cissy. 

“ I was not acquainted with all the little details of 
social etiquette, my love, in those days.” 

‘‘ Did you see the young lady?” asks my youngest 
daughter again. 

*■* No ; but I met her in the street, and stopped and 
spoke to her.” 

‘‘ Did she speak first ?” 


80 


CHRISTOPHER KENRICK. 


“ No, I spoke first.” 

“And you stopped her, too. Oh, how rude, 
papa !” 

“ Then, you see, I was desperately in love with 
her. Cissy.” 

“If the Eeverend Paul Felton had stopped me 
after a mere introduction at a party, I should have 
cut him,” says Cissy, with wonderful firmness. 

“Should you, indeed?” says that very gentleman, 
who had sauntered up behind us whilst we were 
speaking; whereupon Cissy looks confused for a 
moment, then laughs coquettishly, and tells the Eev. 
Paul Felton the incident which we are discussing, 
with the rules of society for regulating such meet- 
ings. 

“ Bother the rules of society !” says Bess. “ The 
rules of common sense and humanity should have 
the first consideration.” 

“ Wliich rules are supposed,” said the Eev. Paul 
Felton, in his deep bass voice, “ to be contained in 
that admirable code of laws which society has laid 
down for the general good. I quite support Miss 
Cissy in the position she has taken. I should think 
very meanly of a young lady w^ho permitted such a 
social breach of etiquette as the one instanced by 
Cissy.” 

“Oh, Mr. Felton!” exclaims my wife, “are you 
speaking seriously ?” 

“Most certainly, Mrs. Kenrick. By the way, I 
have an appointment at the church in ten minutes 


FAMILY CRITICISM. 


81 


about a question interesting to Miss Cissy, and I 
called to ask for her company tliitber.” 

Whereupon my youngest daughter trips away for 
her bonnet, and in five minutes, Bess, Mrs. Ken- 
rick, my son Harry, and myself, are left to ourselves. 

“Somehow I cannot like Mr. Felton,” my son 
remarks. 

“ He is too good by half,” says Bess. 

“ Nonsense, nonsense,” I say ; “ it would not be 
well for the clergy to recognize any interference 
with those rules of etiquette which bind society 
together.” 

In my heart, though, I rather sympathized with 
my eldest daughter’s observation; and in the end 
we all had reason to agree with her. 

“ Your friend, Tom Folgate, seems to have been 
a jolly fellow,” remarks Harry, whose objections to 
the first part of my story have been somewhat al- 
layed by the plaudits of a sensible public and the 
praises of an independent and enlightened press . . . ! 

“ Yes ; he was in love with Emmy Wilton. I did 
not know this when he pointed out her house to me, 
though his quick perception had detected that I was 
what you young men of the present day call spooney 
on Esther.” 

“ That miserable creature, Mrs. Mitching, was in 
love with Tom Folgate ; there can be no doubt 
about that,” says my wife, as she pours out the 
coffee. 

“ Yes ; that is a very sad story,” I say ; “ but 
4 * 


82 


CHRISTOPHER KENRICK. 


Mitching was such a stupid, fussy, silly, good fel- 
low.” 

“ No ; but, my dear,” says Mrs. Kenrick, nothing 
can be said in her defence.” . 

“ Oh, don’t say that, mother,” rejoins Bess, who 
is a strong-minded young lady, as the reader will 
already have observed. “ Perhaps her parents 
compelled her to marry this Mitching, with his 
everlasting gold-rimmed glasses.” 

“ No matter, Bess ; nothing in the world could 
justify her conduct,” says Mrs. Kenrick, promptly. 

“She was a bewitching little woman,” I rejoin. 
“I almost fell in love with her myself. I would 
have done anything in the world for her.” 

“ You seem to have been rather general in your 
admiration,” says Bess. “ For my part, so far as 
the story has gone, I like Julia Belmont best. Did 
you desert that young lady altogether after you 
saw Miss Wilton ?” 

“ No, Bess, I called upon Miss Belmont, and also 
upon the Fitzwaltons, during the next evening, and 
went with the Fitzwaltons to the theatre, where 
Miss Amelia set about captivating the audience 
generally, but more particularly favoring the light 
comedian with her fascinating attentions.” 

“ Do you not think, sir,” asks my eldest daughter, 
“ that you take the reader of this story too much 
into your confidence ?” 

“ You think there is not sufficient mystery in the 
plot?” 


FAMILY CRITICISM. 


83 


“I fancy tlie incidents are a little tame, Gov- 
ernor,” says my son, in an apologetic tone. 

“ I have heard you say, father, that there should 
be a certain amount of mystery in a story as well as 
in a picture. Indeed, you condemned that last 
painting of mine because it was too faithful a tran- 
script of nature,” says Bess. 

“If there is to be any charm whatever for the 
reader in this story, it will be the charm of truth- 
fulness. I am painting portraits, Bess, not pictures.” 

“ The old painters made their portraits pictures, 
father.” 

“ And so shall mine be pictures ; but there must 
be no mystery in the reader’s mind as to identity. 
Now a landscape, Bess, should have a certain 
amount of mystery in it, as Tom Taylor has re- 
cently been telling you ; and he instances, I think, 
the genius of Turner as an example of poetic land- 
scape painting.” 

“What a pity it is Tom Taylor did not tell us 
in his sketch, ‘Among the Pictures,’ that capital 
story of Turner, which is the key to his essay.” 

“Well, what is the story?” I ask, — Bess pausing, 
as though she has concluded. 

“ A friendly critic said to Turner, ‘ Your pictures 
are undoubtedly splendid works ; but I never saw 
such landscapes in nature as you paint.’ ‘ No,’ said 
Turner ; ‘ don’t you wish you had ?’ ” 

“ Do you not think,” says Mrs. Kenrick, becoming 
interested in the new turn of our conversation, “ that 


84 


CHEISTOPHER KENRICK. 


art and literature in the present day suffer by the 
rapidity of production ? I have just been reading 
Mrs. Henry Wood’s last book. They say she writes 
two or three novels a year.” 

Miss Braddon and Mrs. Wood have, I believe, 
written several stories at the same time, and had 
them running in different serials.” 

“ What sort of work can you expect under such 
circumstances ?” 

“ I do not care to criticise my contemporaries, and 
more particularly when they are ladies,” I reply. 
“ Both these women can write. I don’t think I ob- 
ject to rapid production. Pope said the things he 
wrote fastest always pleased most. Shakspeare 
wrote ‘The Merry Wives’ in a fortnight.” 

“Shakspeare!” says Bess to herself, as if she 
deprecates all mention of the bard with any other 
writer. 

I continue my illustrations : “ Dry den wrote ‘ St. 
Cecilia’ at a sitting. Scott penned his novels with 
great rapidity. Balzac would shut himself up in a 
room and never leave it until his novel was finished. 
Dickens writes rapidly, but corrects and finishes 
laboriously.” 

. “Is our favorite novelist’s manuscript hard to 
read ?” asks my wife. 

“Dickens’ manuscript is what printers call bad 
copy. Shirley Brooks writes plainly and with very 
little revision. Douglas Jerrold’s copy was almost 
as good as copperplate. Lord Lyttelton, who moved 


FAMILY CRITICISM. 


85 


a clause to the Eeform Bill that nobody should have 
a vote who could not write a legible hand, writes so 
illegibly that the clerks at the table could not read 
the resolution which he handed in. Tom Taylor 
writes as if he had wool at the end of his pen. It 
is urged that neat, careful writing often indicates a 
clear, thoughtful, scholarly mind. Lord Lyttelton 
and Tom Taylor are marked instances to the con- 
trary.” 

Then the conversation branches off into the broad 
question of the character which marks handwriting, 
and thence we get back to Noel Stanton, a specimen 
of whose caligraphy I have in my pocket. Bess 
says it is a pompous, stiff hand ; she could read his 
character in his t’s and y’s. And this reminds me 
that Tom Folgate wrote a big schoolboyish hand. 
Hitching a plain, concise small hand. Miss Julia 
Belmont’s was a free and open style. I have one 
of her letters by me, which I promise to show Bess. 
Amelia Fitzwalton wrote in a very pointed, lady-like 
style, and crossed her letters to such an extent that 
you could not read them. Esther Wilton’s was a 
timid, sprawling style of handwriting. But, oh, how 
dear to me ! 

Whilst I am thinking this and lighting a fresh 
cigar. Cissy returns. 

“ I want to know something more about Miss 
Wilton, papa,” she says. “ What did you say to her 
in the street ?” 

I really forget ; but I did a ruder thing than 


86 


CHRISTOPHEE KENEICK. 


that which shocked you so much, Cissy. I walked 
by her side until I came to Hitching’ s shop, and told 
her how anxious I had been to know her. I stam- 
mered this out in a stupid kind of way ; but she 
smiled as if she were inclined to say the same.” 

“ Shocking ! Well, and what did Tom Folgate 
do ?” 

“ Why, a week afterward he came and took rooms 
in the same house where I lodged, and we went 
courting together.” 

‘‘ Here comes your lover again,” says Bess, inter- 
rupting our talk, as Mr. Felton appeared in the dis- 
tance. ‘‘ It is getting chilly. I think we had better 
adjourn to the drawing-room, and make father try 
over some of those trios with us.'” 

We do adjourn accordingly ; but I decline to un- 
lock that old violin case, preferring instead, for vari- 
ous important reasons, to go to my study and write 
the next chapter in this eventful history. 


CHAPTEE X. 


ESTHEE, EMMY, PEISCILLA, BARBAEA. 

The Wiltons were a strange family. 

Mrs. Wilton, my landlady informed me, liad been 
a woman of considerable fortune ; but her two mar- 
riages bad been most disastrous. 

“ Disastrous to the husbands ?” I inquired. 

“ To all parties,” Mrs. Nixon replied. 

“In both cases Mrs. W. married beneath her; 
and in the second instance her husband drunk him- 
self to death.” 

“ There is no doubt about this. Mister Kenrick,” 
she continued, in her loud way. “ They’re a queer 
lot : the mother is a softy ; she lets them two old 
megs do just what they please : as for the youngest, 
they put on her a good deal ; and then there’s that 
married brother, a disgrace to all creation. If I was 
thinking of marriage, I should be very sorry to get 
into that family ; so there ! Mr. Eolgate may think 
what he likes of that remark.” 

Mr. Eolgate had been lodging at Nixon’s, in the 
next rooms to mine, for several weeks when Mrs. 
Nixon talked to me in this loud and by no means 
agreeable strain. We both visited at the Wiltons. 
Indeed Tom had established a sort of position in the 
family as Emmy’s beau ; and I was rapidly making 


88 


CHBISTOPHER KENllICK. 


a position on the strength of my undisguised ad- 
miration for Esther. 

The first difficulty that presented itself to me on 
my visits to the Wiltons was a strange delusion 
which had taken possession of the virgin mind of 
Miss Priscilla Wilton, the eldest of the two ‘‘megs” 
alluded to by Mrs. Nixon. Miss Priscilla (who was 
thin and melancholy, and required frequent table- 
spoonfuls of brandy to sustain her delicate frame) 
insisted upon believing that I came there to see her. 
She was always the first to come forward and greet 
me, and the last to shake hands with me at parting, 
following me more than once to say a tender word 
or two in the hall. 

Miss Barbara, the other meg, as Mrs. Nixon per- 
sisted in calling her, was a morose beauty. She read 
cheap novels, and played fiercely at whist or loo, in- 
variably winning, whosoever might be her opponents. 
She regarded all of us as fools, though she showed 
some little extra consideration for me. 

It was soon made tolerably clear to my mind that 
Esther Wilton occupied in this household very much 
the position of Cinderella in the fairy tale. She 
waited on everybody ; she seemed to supplement the 
two servants ; she was at everybody’s beck and call ; 
and both Barbara and Priscilla would often address 
her in anything but a respectful or sisterly manner. 

We talked about this many times, I and Tom Eol- 
gate. He said if it had not been at Emmy’s solici- 
tation, he should have kicked up a row about it be- 


ESTHEK, EMMY, PRISCILLA, BARBARA. 89 

fore now. One day he had told the old woman that 
it was an infernal shame she should allow her eldest 
daughters to put upon the younger ones ; but this 
had only resulted in Esther and Emmy being more 
shamefully treated than before. 

“ Why, hang it,” said Tom, in his rough way, “ I 
caught Emmy cleaning the doorstep one day ; and I 
kicked the bucket to the devil. Mrs. Wilton wanted 
to gammon me that Emmy did it of her own accord.” 

Had I not been so desperately in earnest about 
Esther, the naivete of the spinster Priscilla would 
have been highly diverting. I had often made up 
my mind to tell Esther that I loved her, and ask her 
mother to let us be engaged like Tom and Emmy, 
with whom we occasionally went for a walk. 

At length the opportunity offered itself. On a 
pleasant summer evening I encountered Esther alone, 
at the farther end of the High Street, by the com- 
mon. She had been to see a married sister, and 
take her little niece a present. 

‘‘^Will you let me escort you home. Miss Esther,” 
I said, “ and go across the common ?” 

Esther said she would ; but we must walk quickly. 

When we had reached that long clump of tall 
wavy rushes which shuts in the sluggish river, and 
makes a shady path for happy lovers. Miss Wilton 
asked me if Miss Birt was quite well. 

‘‘ Yes, I believe so,” I said. 

“Emmy says she is dreadfully jealous of Miss 
Belmont, the actress.” 


90 


CHEISTOPHER KENRICK. 


“Indeed! Why?” 

“ Because you take her out so often.” 

“ I really do not understand you, Miss Esther,” I 
said. 

Emmy thought you were engaged to Miss Birt,” 
said Esther. 

“I engaged! and to Amelia Birt. Wliy she 
makes love to everybody. I am not engaged. Miss 
Wilton.” 

It was in my mind to say I wished I were engaged, 
and then say to whom. How is it a fellow in love 
finds it so difficult to say out and out to a girl, “ I 
love you,” when he can flirt effectively and say all 
kinds of desperate things to one whom he does not 
love at all? 

“ Emmy says she hears you are nearly always at 
the Eitzwaltons, and she often sees you boating 
when she and Mr. Folgate are out together.” 

“ Eitzwalton is one of my dearest friends,” I say. 

“ Dearer than Mr. Eolgate ?” asks Esther. 

“ No ; but I have known him longer.” 

“Emmy says Mr. Eolgate loves you as if you 
were his own brother.” 

“ Ah, he is a good fellow,” I say, and I take Miss 
Esther’s hand to lead her out of the way of two 
staring sheep that come down to seek the shade of 
the rushes. 

“We must walk quicker, if you please, Mr. Ken- 
rick,” says Esther, whose hand I still retain. 

“ Why are you in such a hurry?” I inquire, bring- 


ESTHER, EMMY, PRISCILLA, BARBARA. 91 

ing my voice down to her own soft tones. “ Will 
Priscilla be cross ?” 

“ Priscilla ! I don’t know that she will.” 

Esther, it is clear, does not mean to say anything 
against her sisters ; but I gradually and deftly draw 
from her quite enough to endorse my views of her 
position in the family ; and a strong desire to be her 
protector takes possession of me. She is a forlorn 
maiden in my mind, from that moment — a perse- 
cuted, patient, soft-eyed Ariadne fastened to that 
family rock in Beverley Crescent, and I am des- 
tined to rescue her. 

I lead the conversation again and again into this 
channel, until at last Esther looks up at me with her 
confiding blue eyes, and confesses that she is not so 
happy at home as she might be. 

“ But I shall soon be away from home now, though 
I don’t like leaving Emmy.” 

“ Away from home ?” I say. 

“ Yes,” she says. 

“ Tell me all about it. Miss Wilton ; perhaps I 
may advise you.” 

She declines, however, to say more, and prefers to 
hurry faster and faster homeward ; but I beguile her 
with the imaginary story of two young people ; one 
a boy, the other a girl. The boy was miserable at 
home, and he ran away. Two years afterward he 
met a girl who was unhappy too. Upon this founda- 
tion I base a vague but romantic story of love and 
happiness. 


92 


CHRISTOPHER KENRICK, 


By and by I win her confidence, and she tells me she 
is going to take a situation as nursery governess. 

“ But is this necessary?” I ask. 

“ Priscilla says I must go out — it is time I did 
something for my living.” 

“ Monstrous !” I reply, seizing in imagination the 
thin arm of that vixen spinster. 

I am past sixteen ; and Barbara, too, says I 
ought to be doing something. They have procured 
a place for me at Sheffield.” 

‘‘ This must not be,” I say firmly ; whereupon 
Esther looks up at me curiously, and having once 
commenced to talk freely, goes on. 

, “ If it were not for Emmy I should be glad to go ; 
^t will be so much more independent to be away and 
earn my own living, and not be a burden to any 
one, and — ” 

And here Esther breaks down with a sob. Then 
all my courage comes. I stand before her in the 
twilight, and taking her hand, say — 

‘‘ Oh, Esther ! my dear Esther, let that precious 
burden be mine ! I love you with all my heart and 
soul I” 

“ Let me go, Mr. Kenrick,” says Esther ; “ you 
frighten me. There is some one coming across the 
common ; it is Mr. Eolgate, I believe ; let us go 
back. I must go home.” 

She dried her dear eyes, and we hurried away to- 
gether, my heart beating at a terrific pace, and my 
face burning with excitement. 


ESTHER, EMMY, PRISCILLA, BARBARA. 93 

We neither of ns spoke until we were nearly out 
in the road again ; and then I said, “ Esther, you do 
not love me !” but I must have said this in a half- 
boastful spirit; for Esther looked up with such a 
tender glance of reproach that I need not have 
cared to force a confession from her lips. It seemed 
to me, nevertheless, that I must hear her say she 
loved me ; that I must fix her to that confes- 
sion. 

“ Your story, Esther, is almost like that of the 
young lady I told you of ; but she was happy at last, 
because she loved that runaway boy. But you do 
not love me as she loved him, do you ?” 

‘‘ I do,” said Esther, quietly looking at me through 
her tears ; and then we spoke no more. We knew 
that our destinies were fixed forever ; and this was 
happiness too great for words. 

How we moved onward in the twilight like two 
people in a happy dream afraid to wake, I remem- 
ber now, as though the dream had never ended. 
The lamps were lighted in the streets when we came 
to Beverley Crescent. I could see by a glance over 
the way that Tom Folgate had lighted his candles. 
It was quite late. How the time had fled ! Esther 
seemed nervous when I knocked at the door ; but 
the color came back to her cheeks when the servant 
said there was only Mrs. Wilton at home. The 
“ megs” had gone out to supper, and Emmy was at 
Mitching’s. Mrs. Wilton said Esther was rather 
late ; but she only seemed to make the remark by 


94 


CHEISTOPHER KENRICK. 


the way, and she followed it up by inviting me to 
stay and have some supper. 

Need I say that I cheerfully accepted the invita- 
tion ? I never had been so happy in my life. Mrs. 
Wilton told me several stories of her childhood, and 
I listened with an air of interest that quite won the 
old lady’s heart. Esther sat near me, in a quiet, 
confiding manner, until at length there was a sharp, 
biting, stinging kind of knock at the door. Soon 
afterward Priscilla and Barbara entered, whereupon 
that happy little party of three broke up. When I 
wished everybody good-night, I did not forget to 
squeeze Esther’s dear little hand, nor to look fondly 
into her deep blue eyes, the windows of a true, pure, 
trusting, loving soul. 



CHAPTEE XI. 


LOVE PASSAGES. 

Foe the time being my happiness was complete. 
Mrs. Wilton consented that I should be a frequent 
visitor at Beverley Crescent. Miss Priscilla treated 
me with the contempt which she considered I de- 
served. Barbara contented herself with cheating 
me at cards out of all my loose silver. Emmy 
patronized me in a pleasant, complimentary way. 
Esther always received me with the same dear 
smile, and always looked happier when I came. 

Protected by many of the privileges of lovers, 
Esther and I wandered alone on quiet evenings 
down by the river ; but generally Tom Folgate and 
Emmy were with us. Sometimes we went out on 
the river, and I call to mind many dreamy, happy 
days spent on that dear old Lindford water. It was 
such a lazy, easy-going, steady old river, with high 
banks here and there, and rushy nooks and feeders 
full of water-lilies and strange weeds. I remember 
me, sculling gently amongst this aquatic vegetation 
to gather lilies and rushes for Esther, who steered 
the boat into her favorite places. I can hear now 
the sliding, hissing sound, of the boat, as it carves 
its way through the tangled weeds ; and then I see 


96 


CHKISTOPHER KENEICK. 


a sail hauled up, and a youth, sitting at a fair girl’s 
feet, and deftly trimming the sail to suit the chang- 
ing wind. I see the boat ghde back again into the 
open river ; I hear the gentle ripples at the bow, 
making a running accompaniment to the quiet talk 
of those two happy lovers. 

Oh, what a gracious time it was ! Did that boat 
gliding over the placid waters rej)resent the peaceful 
course of our two hves ? Or came there storm and 
tempest to tear that swelling sail, and wreck the 
little bark ? 

I was but a boy and she no more than a girl, in 
this dear old Lindford city ; but “ we loved with a 
love that was more than love,” and it seemed to 
change all things unto us. The experience of a 
cold, hard childhood, my early battle with the 
world, stood me in good stead at this time. This 
saved me from a mere sentimental passion. It set 
me planning out the future. It trimmed the mid- 
night lamp, and kept me wakeful over the hardest 
tasks. It opened up to me new fields of study. It 
sharpened my ambition. It made me a man. 

“ I can never hope,” I said to Esther one autumn 
evening, as our boat lay amongst a crowd of fading 
lilies and half-browned leaves, ‘‘ to be rich ; I can 
never hope to give you such a home as Tom Folgate 
wiU prepare for Emmy.” 

Esther plucked the lilies, and looked at me, as 
much as to say, ‘‘ I am yours, take me where you 
will.” 


LOVE PASSAGES. 


97 


“Emmy will have a beautiful house. Tom 
Eolgate’s salary is not less than five hundred a 
year.” 

I was very anxious that Esther should understand 
my position. I had learnt in the school of adversity 
to supplement romance with something of the prac- 
tical. 

“I have not one hundred, though I shall have 
presently. I cannot expect to have more than two 
hundred a year. But that will provide us a nice 
little house, a tidy little servant, and love will give 
us contented hearts. Eh, Esther, my darling ?” 

“ I think a hundred pounds a year, Kenny, a very 
large sum ; but I wish you would not talk of money. 
I should love you just the same if you had not a 
penny.” 

I kiss her fair white brow, gather up the great 
yellow lilies into a heap, pull taut the sail, and away 
we go into the autumn shadows. 

“We shall visit Mr. and Mrs. Eolgate in their 
grand house, and hke our own little cot none the 
less, I am sure,” I say. 

Then we land at the boat-house, and go home to 
Beverley Crescent arm-in-arm, renewing our specu- 
lations anent the future that is in store for us. 

Latterly Tom Eolgate had grown dissatisfied with 
his course of love-making ; his stream not only did 
not run smoothly, it was ruffled by all kinds of sud- 
den squalls and tempests. 


5 


98 


CHRISTOPHER KENRICK. 


“ Emmy,” he said to me, over that last pipe which 
he smoked before going to bed, “ Emmy is a mys- 
tery, Ken. She is everlastingly complaining of 
some fellow following her home, or of love-letters 
being sent to her. Yesterday, she tells me, that 
sneak, Stanton, has been speaking to a friend about 
making her an offer of marriage.” 

“ Indeed !” I say, with much curiosity and sur- 
prise. 

“ Hang me, if I believe it ! I want you to help 
me, Kenny, with your opinion. You are an honest, 
simple-minded fellow, and your views will represent 
those just opposite to my own.” 

Tom smoked, and pushed his big right hand 
through his red curly hair. 

“ You know by this time what it is to love a girl ?” 

“ Yes,” I reply, “ I think I do.” 

“ Well, I don’t love in the way you love. I have 
no business to love a girl at all. I ought to be 
going about the world killing women rather than 
loving them. But somehow Emmy Wilton seems to 
have tamed all the roaring lion that was rife in my 
nature before I saw her. I’ll tell you my story, 
some day, Kenny, and you will be sorry for me.” 

“ I should be sorry for anything that gives you 
pain, Tom.” 

“Well, I’m awfully perplexed, Ken, just now. 
You see, women who are engaged are up to aU 
sorts of manoeuvres for hurrying on the wedding- 
day.” 


LOVE PASSAGES. 


99 


I said “ Yes,” but I did not quite understand the 
drift of Tom’s remarks. 

“ Now it has occurred to me, in spite of myself, that 
Emmy Wilton is working me. She wants to be 
married, and in order to hurry the business on, she 
tells me all sorts of tales to excite my jealousy, and 
make me fear I shall lose her, if I am not quick to 
name the day.” 

“Oh, Tom, a girl would not do such a thing as 
that !” 

“ What would you think of her if she did — if you 
found out that she lied, Kenny ?” Tom asked. 

“ I should be quite sure that she did, before I 
doubted her in thought or word.” 

“Well, I am nearly sure Emmy has told me 
a lie. What would you do if you thought Esther 
had done the same by you ?” 

“ I would not believe it if I knew it ; I should be 
sure there was a horrible mistake somewhere.” 

“ I am a suspicious beggar, Ken ; and I know 
more about women than you do. I have thought 
Emmy Wilton the best and truest of them all, and 
under her influence I was becoming a steady, easy- 
going fellow. If I found her false, I’d whistle her 
out of my heart with as little remorse as your favor- 
ite hero, Otlidlo, cut out the image of DesdemonaJ^ 

“ To discover at last, Tom, that you had been as 
unjust as the dusky soldier.” 

“ Maybe, maybe,” Tom replied. “ I’m a misera- 
ble devil : and no wonder. There is no moral bal- 


100 


CHRISTOPHEE KENEICK. 


last in my composition, Kenny. I’m not even an 
honest fellow, in the proper sense of the term. I 
should be a thief if it were not for my infernal pride. 
I don’t do beastly mean things simply because I’m 
too proud. If it were not for my pride, I should be 
a liar and anything else that is contemptible.” 

“Nonsense, Tom; you are cynical to-night.” 

“ I believe you are an honest, plucky, good fellow, 
Ken; but for the rest of the world, between our- 
selves, I believe everybody else is a rogue, and Tom 
Folgate as big a quack as any other fellow. There ! 
good-night, dear boy ; we’ll resume this subject at 
some future time. Good-night, Kenny !” 

Just as I was going to bed I noticed upon the 
mantel-shelf of my sitting-room a letter which had 
come through the post. It was directed in an easy- 
flowing lady’s hand. I opened it ; and inside the 
envelope was written, “With Miss Julia Belmont’s 
kind regards.” The contents consisted of a circu- 
lar, in which it was announced that the following 
Monday would be the last of the present season at 
the Theatre Eoyal, Lindford, upon which occasion 
the performances would be for the benefit of Miss 
Julia Belmont, who would appear in two of her 
most successful characters, supported by the full 
strength of the company. 

The next morning I wrote a glowing paragraph, 
in which I drew the attention of the readers of the 
Lindford Herald to the important histrionic an- 
nouncement which appeared in our advertising col- 


LOVE PASSAGES. 


101 


limns that week; and, when this liad duly passed 
the critical eye of Mr. Noel Stanton, I called upon 
Miss Belmont. 

I found the lady in a loose morning-dress, with 
her arm in a sling. 

‘‘ Oh, it is nothing,” she said, as I looked at her 
with an air of sympathetic inquiry. “ But I might 
have killed myself, sir, for all you would have known 
of the matter.” 

“ I have been so much engaged lately,” I stam- 
mered. 

“No doubt. Studying the violin?” she asked, 
smiling. 

“ No,” I said. “ Have you had an accident. Miss 
Belmont ?” 

“ Struck my arm against a nail in Constance. It is 
nearly well now ; but I give it rest in the daytime.” 

“ I am very sorry,” I said. 

“Sorry it is nearly well?” Miss Belmont replied, 
looking at me archly. 

“ Very sorry you had an accident,” I said quietly. 
I felt rather uncomfortable in presence of her spark- 
ling gray eye. 

“ Well, sir, sit down. I have been thinking about 
you every day, wondering if I had offended you.” 

I assured Miss Belmont that it would be impossi- 
ble she could offend me. She said she was glad to 
hear it, because, truth to tell, she would be more 
sorry to offend me than any one in the world. 

Of course I felt highly flattered at this, and I, no 


102 


CHRISTOPHER KENRICK. 


doubt, looked all I felt. When she asked me in 
wbat way I bad been so much engaged, I told her 
of my increased studies ; I spoke of Mr. Mitching’s 
party ; I alluded to the Fitzwaltons ; but, somehow 
or other, I said nothing about Esther Wilton. My 
short experience of being in love was sufficient for 
me to understand that it would hardly be wise to 
talk to Miss Belmont about Esther ; and yet I 
nearly did so, over and over again. 

By a deftly-worded addition to the paragraph in 
the Her old, stating that Miss Belmont had re- 
covered from the effects of what might have been a 
serious accident, which happened to her whilst per- 
forming the other evening in “King John,” some 
extra interest was felt in the lady’s benefit; and 
there "was a crowded house in consequence. Uphill 
graciously condescending to take several boxes. 
The Eitzwaltons ’were amongst the Uphills, and 
they had Mr. Noel Stanton with them. The Mitch- 
ings were Downhills ; but Mrs. Mitching outshone 
her fashionable rivals of both cliques, and sat like a 
queen in her customary sea of muslin. The Wil- 
tons were neither Uphills nor Downhills. I had the 
honor of sitting between Esther and Miss Barbara, 
whilst Tom Folgate sat near Emmy, and was ex- 
pected to pay particular attention to Miss Priscilla. 

How vividly the little theatre crops up in my 
memory — a little stuffy place, not half so big as the 
Olympic ! It had been redecorated. You could 
smell the size and glue and paste of the paper and 


LOVE PASSAGES. 


103 


paint that had been dabbed on the front of the 
dress-circle. New muslin curtains had been tacked 
over the two dress-boxes on the stage. The prosce- 
nium was adorned with florid studies of tragedy and 
comedy ; and the light of the chandelier glimmered 
upon a circle of young loves on the ceiling. The 
gallery was very noisy. It entertained the house 
for some time with running comments upon the 
ladies and gentlemen in the boxes ; it let its play- 
bills fall over into the gas, and quarrelled about 
front-seats. The pit was redolent of sawdust and 
orange-peel ; and ginger-beer was freely indulged 
in by the younger portion of the occupants. In the 
dress-circle everybody was radiant. Many faces 
shone with a ruddy country polish ; many damsels 
in those days at Lindford preferred this healthy 
gloss to the powder-toned complexions of very high 
society. I remember what a show there was of 
fresh bright girls, and how the bucks of Lindford 
came out in white waistcoats and snowy shirt-fronts. 
I thought it was quite a grand and festal scene, and 
I was happy beyond description. 

It was a merry play, — “ The Taming of the Shrew,” 
— and we all laughed and enjoyed ourselves im- 
mensely, except when Miss Belmont, at the close, 
delivered a farewell address. The whole theatre 
seemed inclined to urge the young lady to stay on 
the promise of their attendance every night. But 
that was in a moment of excitement, and Julia Bel- 
mont knew how transient this is when measured at 


104 


CHRISTOPHER KENRICK. 


the close of the week by the pecuniary outlay of a 
country town in theatrical amusements. 

I thought the fair actress’s eye wandered to the 
box in which I sat ; and indeed she told me the next 
day that she had seen me. I called to say good-bye, 
and I found her quite moved. She said the recep- 
tion the night before had much affected her ; Lind- 
ford had been so kind to her. She had never felt 
sensations of regret at leaving any place before. 
Would I write to her, and let her know how I got 
on in the world ? My progress would have a special 
interest for her. I had been very kind to her, and 
she never forgot kindness. Her voice trembled 
slightly when she said this, and there was a little 
choking feeling in my throat that prevented me from 
making anything like a lively or cheerful reply. I 
could not say you overrate my little acts of courtesy. 
I could not say I have felt it an honor that you con- 
descended to accept my little acts of service. I 
could say nothing. I should like to have taken her 
into my confidence about the girl in the lama frock ; 
but I could not help feeling that this would prove 
uninteresting to her. At last she said, “ Well, good- 
bye, Mr. Kenrick,” and put out her hand. I shook 
it warmly, looked into her eyes, and said, “ Good- 
bye, Miss Belmont ; I hope we shall see you back 
in Lindford soon.” She looked at me very earnestly, 
and by some extraordinary influence that seemed to 
be mutual in its action, our heads were drawn close 
together, and when I left the house it was with a 


LOVE PASSAGES. 


105 


kiss on my lips, and a mental kind of dizziness that 
made me feel stupid. It seemed as if I was playing 
the part of a villain to the actress, and that of a 
‘‘ gay deceiver” to the girl in the lama frock ; but we 
are over-sensitive about a kiss in these young days 
of love-making, and we exaggerate the importance 
of faltering voices and moist eyes. 

5 * 



CHAPTEE XII. 


THE SPINSTEES AND THEIR PRETTY SISTER. 

Before Miss Julia Belmont has turned her back 
upon Lindford, I find myself in that restless but 
determined mood which brings hot-headed youth 
into the presence of sober expectant parents, solicit- 
ing the honor and extreme gratification of being 
permitted to provide for one of their daughters. 

In this state of mind I propose to Tom Folgate 
that he shall accompany me on a formal visit to Mrs. 
Wilton. 

“ What for, Kenny, my boy?” says Tom. 

“ I am going to ask her to let me and Esther be 
engaged.” 

“ It’s a serious business, Kenny,” says Tom, 
thrusting his big hands into his pockets, and looking 
curiously at me. 

I always notice his hair when I am talking to Tom ; 
it sticks up like a plume over his forehead — a red 
waving plume. Nature evidently intended Tom for 
a very handsome negro, and then changed its mind 
and made him white. He has thick lips, and his 
hair is one mass of little curls all climbing up into 
that tuft on the top. But he is a manly, noble- 
looking fellow, and I feel as if I could go through 
the world with him and be his lieutenant. 


TWO SPINSTERS AND A PRETTY SISTER. 107 

When he says, “It’s a serious business, Kenny,” 
that bushy lock of hair nods warningly, and I watch 
it with modest respect. 

“ Do you think I shall be refused ?” 

“ Can’t say. She’s a devilish pretty girl, Kenny ; 
so round, and plump, and happy-looking.” 

“ Oh, she is, Tom !” I exclaim. 

“ And when do you think of being married ?” 

“ I don’t know. How much will it cost ?” 

“ A lot, my boy ; but it will be cheaper marrying 
Esther than Emmy.” 

“Wniit?” 

“Emmy’s got grander notions. She goes in for 
doing the swell.” 

“ I have always had a sort of fear of Emmy ; I 
stand in awe of her now.” 

“ You can’t marry and set up a house under, say, 
two hundred pounds.” 

“ Indeed ! Well, I haven’t as many shillings.” 

“That’s awkward,” Tom says; and I repeat, 
“ That’s awkward.” 

“ And how are you going to keep a wife, Kenny ?” 

“Keep her !” 

“ Yes.” 

“ I don’t know what you mean.” 

“ What’s your income ?” 

“ About a hundred a year.” 

“ That’s no good, my boy,” 

“ Is it not ?” 


“No.” 


108 


CHRISTOPHER KENRICK. 


‘‘ Then I’ll get more — two hundred, three, five if 
necessary.” 

“ That’s the way to say it, Ken, — spoken like a 
man ! Bravo, Kenny ! Come along ; let us go and 
see the old lady.” 

We go. I pull my hat firmly upon my head and 
take Tom’s arm with a fixed and settled resolution 
to win a home for Esther Wilton. 

“ Who is that ?” I ask, when we are nearly on the 
threshold of the Wiltons. 

“ That swell who has just left the house ?” 

‘‘ Yes.” 

“ Mr. Howard, a rich young gentleman whom 
Emmy is anxious that Esther should marry. They 
say he’s worth five thousand a year.” 

I hate the fellow immediately, with a fierce hatred, 
and begin to dislike Miss Emmy, too.” 

Does Esther care for the fellow ?” 

‘‘ Not a bit,” says Tom. “ But he’s a well-looking, 
gentlemanly person.” 

“ Oh, you think so ! I don’t.” 

“ Of course not,” Tom replies ; and by this time 
we are on the doorstep. 

Mrs. Wilton is alone, fortunately or unfortunately, 
I hardly know which. 

Tom takes me in, and makes an excuse to leave us 
alone. 

I say boldly what my business is. Mrs. Wilton is 
not surprised ; but she weeps. I suppose it is proper 
to weep under these circumstances. She says it re- 


TWO SPINSTEES AND A PEETTY BISTEE. 109 

minds her of her own youthful days. Her first hus- 
band was no older than I am when first she was en- 
gaged to him. But we are both too young, she says, 
and she cites her experience on the question. 

I urge that all I wish is that she should sanction 
my visits, and permit us to be engaged if her daugh- 
ter is willing. I own that I am not rich ; but hint 
that I have hopes of rising in my profession. 

She has no opinion of newspaper people, she says. 
It was one of those gentlemen who once visited the 
late Mr. Wilton and drunk himself into the work- 
house. Newspaper persons and actors she fears 
even more than musicians and betting men. 

I say there are glorious exceptions, and mention 
some great names amongst journalists. 

She does not doubt that I shall get on, because 
everybody says so ; but there’s Mr. Howard, now, — 
he’s rich, and a gentleman. 

“ Mr. Howard !” I exclaim. “ You would not, I 
suppose, influence your daughter’s choice, even if 
she selected a poor man in preference to a rich one.” 

‘‘ No, Mr. Kenrick ; but it’s good to have money, 
it is hard struggling without it.” 

And then Mrs. Wilton weeps again, and complains 
that hers is a trying situation. 

I say that I will not press her to do anything 
which her judgment does not approve. Will she 
give me leave to hope that if I prove myself worthy 
of Esther, I may have the family’s consent to marry 
her some day ? 


110 


CHRISTOPHER KENRICK. 


Yes, she will give me her word to that extent, she 
says. I kiss her hand, just as Emmy enters. 

“ Well, Mr. Kenrick, and how are you, sir ?” says 
this dark beauty, looking first at me and then at her 
mother. 

“ Very well, indeed, thank you,” I say, rising and 
returning her look with as much defiance as I can 
muster. 

I hope you have recovered from the excitement 
of the farewell benefit ?” 

“ Yes, thank you. Miss Emmy.” 

“ And I suppose Miss Belmont has gone for good ?” 

“ I think so.” 

“ You will be very lonely now.” 

She says this just as my own darling comes in — 
just as Esther comes smiling up to me, and gives me 
her hand, with a jDleasant “ How do you do, Mr. 
Kenrick ?” 

“Why do you think I shall be lonely, Miss 
Emmy?” I asked, blushing slightly, much to my an- 
noyance. 

“You will have no one to play duets with you 
now,” Emmy replies. 

“ I very rarely played duets with Miss Belmont.” 

“ Oh, I thought you were a constant visitor there,” 
she replies, carelessly ; and then she turns round to 
greet Tom Eolgate, who comes in with Priscilla, and 
we are quite a family party now. 

“WiU you come and give us a little music, 
Emmy ?” Tom says. 


TWO SPINSTERS AND A PRETTY SISTER. Ill 

He always coaxes her away into the drawing-room 
if he can. 

“ No, thank you, Tom ; not now.” 

Do,” says Tom. 

“ I would rather not ; ask Mr. Kenrick, he is a 
great performer.” 

‘‘ I can hear Kenny perform at home,” Tom re- 
pHes. “ Come, Emmy, do.” 

“Yes, come and play something, Emmy,” says 
Esther, in a soft, low voice. 

“ No, thank you, I will not,” she replies ; taking 
some work from a basket, and sitting down to sew. 

Tom looks savage, as if he would like to stamp 
his feet and say, “ Hang it, you shall play ;” and 
Emmy glances at him tauntingly, as much as to say, 
“ Be angry, if you like ;” and then the next minute 
she looks lovingly up at him, and says, “ Come here, 
Tom, I want to talk to you,” whereupon he is by 
her side, subdued and interested. 

Priscilla orders Esther to go and fetch that book 
off the sideboard. She does not ask her to be good 
enough to go and bring it, she commands her as if 
she were a menial. I hate Priscilla. She is fifty if 
she is a day ; her shoulders are high, she minces in 
her gait, and affects a simpering smile. 

Esther has fetched the book : it is the wrong one. 

“ You stupid girl,” says Priscilla, “ if it was possi- 
ble to bring the wrong one, of course you would do 
it ; go and get the other one.” 

Esther goes, and I am boiling over with rage. 


112 


CHEISTOPHER KENEICK. 


Why doesn’t Mrs. Wilton prevent these elder daugh- 
ters from domineering over the youngest, and pret- 
tiest, and best of them all ? 

The second book is the right one. 

“Now just go and put my dressing-table in or- 
der,” says Priscilla. 

“ And bring me my worked slippers,” says Bar- 
bara, the fat, and gross, and bouncing sister. 

Esther obeys meekly as if nothing unusual is 
occurring, and I am in agony. I look at Mrs. 
Wilton, she is dozing on the sofa. Tom and Emmy 
are talking with their heads close together in the 
window. Napoleon on a white horse is crossing the 
Alps at the other end of the room. A great flabby- 
looking cat is trying to get upon Priscilla’s bony 
knees. And I am alone with my rage and passion. 

Esther returns with Barbara’s slippers (Barbarian’s 
slippers, I say to myself). I look at her with all 
the love and sympathy I can. She returns me a 
timid glance, and is gone. Nobody speaks to me, 
and I wish I were gone too ; but I make a desperate, 
fierce, burning resolution whilst I am sitting there 
gazing at Napoleon crossing the Alps. I will be re- 
venged on Priscilla. Barbara shall suffer for her 
brutality. The fairy shall come and take my Cin- 
derella to the ball. I will be the prince, and the 
slipper shall fit Esther. 

I get up and say I think I must go. 

“Won’t you stay and have some tea?” Miss 
Emmy asks. 


TWO SPINSTEKS AND A PEETTY SISTER. 113 


I say, “ No, tliank you,” undecidedly. 

“ Oh yes, Kenny, you’ll stay,” says Tom. 

“We shall have tea in a few minutes,” Emmy 
adds. 

“ Thank you, I will stay,” I reply. 

I sit there looking at Napoleon still; but I 
am thinking of Esther at the degrading occupa- 
tion of putting her eldest sister’s dressing-table in 
order. 

Tea comes at last, and Esther has to put hassocks 
for Priscilla’s and Barbara’s feet. If anything is 
wanting on the table, they do not ring the bell for 
the servant, but order Esther to get this or that, or 
fetch this or the other, until my tea nearly chokes 
me. Tom notices my uneasiness, and at last says, 
“ Miss Esther will get no tea, shall I ring the 
bell?” 

“ No, thank you,” says Priscilla, tartly, “ I will go 
myself. It is coming to a pretty pass if it is too 
much trouble for the younger members of the family 
to wait upon their elders.” 

“ Oh, it is no trouble,” says Esther, getting up in 
a hurry. 

“ Oh, yes it is,” says Miss Priscilla. “ I can go ; 
pray sit down.” 

“ I did not know Miss Priscilla admitted that she 
was any one’s elder here,” says Tom, testily. 

“ Tom ! — Mr. Eolgate, don’t be rude,” says Emmy, 
looking half-approvingly, half in remonstrance, at 
Tom. 


114 


CHRISTOPHER EENRICK. 


‘‘ Mr. Folgate, I tliouglit you would have known 
better,” says Barbara, glancing daggers and toasting- 
forks and hot-cups-of-tea-in-your-face at me. 

a There, there ; pray do not let us have a disturb- 
ance,” says Mrs. Wilton, at last ; and Miss Priscilla 
is heard angrily rating Esther outside the door. 
They both enter the next moment, Esther struggling 
evidently to keep back her tears. Miss Priscilla curl- 
ing up her narrow, bony-looking nose, and crowd- 
ing her shoulders up, and taking her seat with an 
air of injured innocence, laughable to behold, if one 
were not so desperately annoyed. If she were a 
man, I would kick her in the public street, I think ; 
but that would not be right. Never do to kick 
Esther’s relation. 

I explain to Tom my feelings upon this point 
when we get home. He says there is a brother 
whom I can kick, if I like — a brother who has not 
so much compunction as I have about relationship — 
a brother who kicks his wife, Esther’s sister-in-law — 
a wretched, drunken brother, who has spent thou- 
sands that ought to have belonged to those two 
girls. ‘‘ The old woman will die a beggar yet, if she 
does not mind. A house divided against itself, and 
a mother giving way to those who don’t care for 
her, and neglecting the youngest who do. That old 
woman would lay down her life for her drunken son, 
and go through any amount of misery at the com- 
mand of those two megs, as Nixon calls the spin- 
sters ; and here are these two splendid girls, worth 


TWO SPiNSTERS AND A PRETTY SISTER. 115 

their weight in gold — damn it, Kenny, it makes me 
mad to see the old fool !” 

Tom is yery angry. 

I say Emmy does not seem to be put upon. 

“No; she can take care of herself,” Tom says. 
“ And a most tantalizing, puzzling young lady she 
is too.” 

I look for an explanation. 

“ Ah, never mind now,” Tom replies ; “ let us have 
a cigar, and go to bed, Kenny. It’s a bad world.” 

We smoke and talk upon all sorts of subjects. 
Tom says very few people are properly mated. 
“Look at Mitchings, for instance. Mrs. M. cares 
nothing about Mr. Magnificence in spectacles.” I 
say, “ Nonsense, Tom.” He replies that he knows 
the world, and he knows what women are. “ Then, 
there’s the Eitzwaltons. Mrs. F. is a regular spit- 
fire.” I say she is a pretty, agreeable woman. Tom 
says she’s a fiery, bumptious woman ; and if she 
had any respect for her husband, wouldn’t she stop 
the vagaries of that sister of hers ? He insists that 
very few married people are happy, and for his own 
part he does not think he should be happy himself. 
He hates women. They are a hollow, painted lot. 
Of course there may be exceptions. The proverbs 
of every country depict women as deceivers, slan- 
derers, liars. Proverbs are the experience of the 
many. There must be truth in proverbs that agree 
with proverbs all over the world. I say he is a 
dreadful cynic. He says he knows that ; but I tell 


116 


CHRISTOPHER KENRICK. 


liim he loves Emmy Wilton, nevertheless ; and he 
says he knows that too. 

Then we drift into other topics, and separate 
for the night. I know which is Esther’s room. 
There is a light in it. I see it from my window, and 
I watch it until it disappears, making all the while 
a thousand resolutions to rescue Esther from the 
thraldom of those spinster sisters. 

Acting upon one of these resolves, I consider it 
necessary to sit up all night and read vigorously. It 
is necessary that I should read solid books for the 
purposes of high-class journalism. I take up Burton, 
and read with all my might, making at the same 
time ample notes, more particularly upon chapter 
the sixth, concerning which I begin to think I am in 
a position to offer an opinion. It is daylight before 
I have completed my notes, with marginal comments 
in prose and verse, upon Arria with Foetus, Artemi- 
sia with Mausoleus, Eubenius Celer with his lovely 
Ennea, Orpheus with Eurydice. I go to bed and 
dream that Burton has been called upon to mention 
to future ages the felicity and increasing happiness 
of Christopher and Esther. I wake to find that I 
have overslept myself, and missed an important 
meeting at the Guildhall, which I ought to have at- 
tended. I rush off without my breakfast, get there 
in the middle of an address upon the sanitary con- 
dition of Lindford, and proceed to transfer it in 
Harding’s hieroglyphics to that other note-book 
which is the property of my magnificent employer, 


TWO SPINSTERS AND A PRETTY SISTER. 117 


George Mitching, Esq. Somehow I fancy it is a 
stupid world, and this notion is not removed when 
I have written out for the printer a true and par- 
ticular account of that most prosy meeting at the 
Guildhall. 




CHAPTEE XIII. 


WHICH OUGHT TO BE PUBLISHED IN BELL’S LIFE.” 

It was an eventful day, that upon which I left my 
home without breakfast after a night with Burton. 

Latterly, Mr. Noel Stanton had been much less 
considerate in his dealings with me than formerly. 
He had strained his authority over me to such an 
extent that the Lind/ord Herald office was not the 
paradise it had been. 

On this day in particular he was excessively rude to 
me, not to say insulting and tyrannical. I regret to 
say that his arbitrary and ungentlemanly conduct 
toward me brought us into a serious personal en- 
counter. 

I see my old friend and enemy now ; I count him a 
friend to this day and esteem him ; and what pos- 
sessed him to provoke that combat in those past 
days is still to me one of those enigmas which time 
does not solve. Tom Eolgate said it arose out of a 
double jealous feeling — ^jealousy at my progress in 
the duties of journalism, and jealousy of my famili- 
arity with the Eitzwaltons. He was sweet on Miss 
Birt, and no doubt, Tom said. Miss Birt had played 
me off against him, to make him the more earnest 
and prompt in his declarations. Tom insisted that 


OUGHT TO BE IN “ BELL’s LIEEJ 


119 


tliis was the common practice of nearly all young 
ladies. However that might be does not matter 
now. Nothing could warrant Mr. Noel Stanton’s 
conduct on this memorable day. 

The editorial and reporting departments of the 
renowned Lindford Herald were close by St. Martin’s 
Church. They were only separated from the church- 
yard by a narrow road that led to the river beyond. 
My room was the first on entering the building. 
Next to this was Mr. Stanton’s; and here the literary 
department ended, shut off from the front portion 
of the building by Mr. Mitching’s bedrooms, and 
other apartments of his private residence. On this 
memorable day aforesaid I entered my room, and 
after transcribing certain of those shorthand notes 
anent the sanitary condition of Lindford, I went to 
pay my respects to Mr. Noel Stanton. 

My room was a very poor place. The furniture 
consisted of two chairs and a desk, a map of the 
county, three paper-weights, a metal inkstand, a 
paste-pot, a piece of cocoanut matting, a window- 
sill full of old newspapers, the window itself filled in 
with a gable of the old church and half a grave- 
stone. 

Mr. Noel Stanton’s room was a drawing, dining- 
room, and library to mine — Buckingham Palace to 
a shanty. A set of book-shelves filled with a variety 
of works of reference; a carpet and hearth-rug, 
paper-basket, two easy chairs, handsome fender and 
fire-irons, a leather-covered library table, and a 


120 


CHEISTOPHEK KENKICK. 


leather-covered seat to match : upon which seat and 
at which table sat Mr. Noel Stanton, looking up 
through his Hght, thin-rimmed spectacles at a news- 
paper which he held high up whilst he leaned back 
luxuriously, letting the scarlet tassel of his brilliant 
smoking-cap dangle over the back of that handsome 
leather seat. It was quite a picture, this room, with 
the editor in it, and until within the last few days it 
had never entered my conceited imagination to think 
for a moment that some day I might sit in as grand 
a room and with as much authority. 

Mr. Noel Stanton was something more than editor 
of the Herald / he took a share of the reporting, when 
this feature of the local work predominated. This 
was a condescension on his part which was highly 
appreciated by Mr. Mitching, and was of importance 
to me. Upon this never-to-be-forgotten day it had 
been arranged that I should attend at the Guildhall 
and Mr. Noel Stanton at the Castle, where there 
was a special magisterial meeting. 

Well, how did the magistrates get on ?” said Mr. 
Stanton, when I entered his room. 

“ I don’t know. I had a narrow escape this morn- 
ing of missing the Guildhall meeting,” I replied. 

“ What Guildhall meeting?” said Mr. Stanton, lay- 
ing down the Times, and looking at me in a haughty 
manner through his spectacles. 

“ The sanitary business,” I reply, shortly. 

“Hang the sanitary business! What did the 
magistrates do at the Castle?” 


OUGHT TO BE IN “ BELL’s LITE.’ 


121 


“I don’t know. Have you not been there, Mr. 
Stanton?” 

“ I been there, sir ; no, sir, I have ‘ not been there, 
Mr. Stanton.’ ” 

“ You were to have gone,” I say as calmly as I can. 

“ Nothing of the kind. I was not to have gone, 
sir,’^ he replies mockingly. 

“ I understood so,” I say. 

“ Understood so ! Humbug, sir — all humbug !” 

He rises angrily from his seat, and repeats, 
“ Humbug, sir !” all the time scowling at me through 
his spectacles. 

I go for the diary which is kept in my room ; I 
show him in his own handwriting, “ Castle meeting, 
N. S.,” “ Guildhall, at 10, C. K.” These are the ar- 
rangements for the day, duly initialed by himself. 

“ It’s a lie, sir, a forgery,” he says, getting very red 
in the face. 

I think to myself he is not half a head taller than I 
am, and certainly no stronger. It flashes through 
my mind also that I had many a flght at Stoneyfield 
when I was a very little fellow. 

“ What do you mean, Mr. Stanton ?” I ask indig- 
nantly. 

“ Mean ! You are a conceited puppy and a liar, 
sir!” 

Watch your opponent’s eye occurs to me as one of 
the golden rules of pugilistic Stoneyfleld ; have a 
firm guard as another ; and hit out well from the 
shoulder whenever there is an opening, as a third. 

6 


122 


CHRISTOPHER KENRICK. 


I plant my right foot well down, and get ready for a 
rapid guard, as I say, “ And you are another, sir, if 
it comes to that !” 

“ Leave the room, you scoundrel !” screams Mr. 
Stanton, “ or I’ll pitch you out of the window.” 

He rushes toward me. I put up my right-hand 
guard, and stand as firm as a rock. 

“ Better take off your spectacles,” I say coolly. 

“ You wretched cur !” he screams, acting on my 
suggestion at the same time. 

“ Pooh !” I say ; “ you are a greater ass than I 
took you for.” 

My temerity seems boundless. I don’t care for 
forty thousand Stantons, or forty thousand Heralds^ 
at that moment. 

Again he rushes toward me. When he is within 
striking distance, his face being conveniently acces- 
sible, I let out with my right, well from the shoulder. 
He staggers, but recovers himself, and plunges at 
me again. I then release my left lightly, and down 
he goes with his head in the paper-basket. 

I keep my eyes well upon him. He rises to his 
feet. I put up my left-hand guard, ready to exer- 
cise my right. Instead of coming on again, my 
opponent seizes a chair and throws it at me with 
all his might. Fortunately it only grazes my head, 
and goes smash into the bookshelves ; but this un- 
expected onslaught fiurries me a little, and I find 
myself on the floor, with the editorial fingers in my 
neck-tie, and the editorial lips uttering the most 


OUGHT TO BE IN “ BELL’s LIFE.” 


123 


murderous threats. I curl my legs round the das- 
tard. We roll over and over. I feel myself getting 
the worst of this new phase of the battle. With a 
sudden exercise of all my strength, I get uppermost 
once more, and plant my knee upon his chest. His 
hold upon my throat relaxes. He tries to speak. I 
seize him firmly by the heck, and then let him say 
what he has to say. 

“ I give in, I give in ! I cry you mercy,” he gasps. 
I release him, and we both get up ; he with serious 
marks of the conflict between his eyes — I, feeling a 
little sore about the throat, but otherwise unhurt. 

Just as I am leaving the room he rushes at me 
from behind, seizes the tails of my new blue frock- 
coat, and tears them from one side to the other. 
When I turn round upon him, he confronts me with 
a pair of shears and a bleeding mouth ; and I hear 
footsteps entering my room. 

I shut the editorial door, seat myself at my own 
desk, and receive Mr. Hitching. 

“ Good-morning, Kenrick,” says Mr. Hitching. 
“ Is Mr. Stanton in his room ?” 

My reply was more in Mr. Stanton’s interest than 
my own. It came out instantly, justifying the epi- 
thet which the editor had applied to me ten minutes 
before. 

“ No, sir ; he has just stepped out.” 

I said this loudly, that Mr. Stanton might hear 
me, and remain quiet. 

My reply was unjustifiable. I believe it was my 


124 


CHEISTOPHER KENRICK. 


first lie ; if not, it was certainly the first impudent, 
direct one I had ever told. 

Mr. Hitching was satisfied. If he had gone into 
Mr. Stanton’s room, I should have looked foQlish 
indeed. It is a wonder to me that Mr. Stanton did 
not convict me on the spot. He used this incident 
against me on the next daj^. 

“ Will you come in and dine with us to-morrow, 
Mr. Kenrick ? Mrs. Hitching will be pleased to see 
you. We shall dine immediately after church, 
Master Kenrick. As it is communion Sunday, we 
shall be out half an hour later than usual, as you are 
aware.” 

The pompous gentleman looked at me under his 
gold-rimmed glasses, pursed up his lips, said “I 
think we are beginning to appreciate you — eh, eh. 
Master K. ?” and bade me good-morning ; where- 
upon, Mr. Stanton hurried out — not to follow Mr. 
Hitching, but to seek an artist friend, as I afterward 
discovered, and get him to paint out certain blue 
marks about his eyes, certain marks of my profi- 
ciency in the science of defence, for which I was 
heartily sorry. 

At the same time I cannot disguise from myself 
that I experienced something like pleasant sensa- 
tions of victory. I had been assailed in a cowardly 
fashion. My opponent was a bigger and an older 
man ; but I could have thrashed a couple of Stantons 
easily, if they had been equally ignorant of those few 
leading rules of the noble art of self-defence. I had 


OUGHT TO BE IN BELL’s LIFE.” 125 

fought scores of boys at Stoneyfield, fought them 
upon the honorable rules of the ring ; no kicking, 
no hitting when a fellow’s down, and fair play gener- 
ally. 

Whilst Mr. Stanton went to his artist, I went 
home and changed my coat, and in the evening I 
entertained Tom Folgate' and Fitzwalton with a full 
account of the battle. 

I had to show them my guard. I had to exhibit 
how, when Stanton “ came at me wild,” I let drive 
with my right. It must have taken me hours to 
satisfy the curiosity of these two friends. Fitzwal- 
ton would be Stanton, and go through the whole 
thing like a play, rushing at me wild, as he said, and 
making me let out with my right. Then he would 
pretend to get up and throw the chair at me, and 
get me down and roll over, letting me kneel on his 
chest, Tom Folgate all the time laughing and hold- 
ing his sides, and flourishing his hair-plume with 
intense delight. Fitzwalton would go through the 
whole fight, would cry, “I give in,” ‘‘I am van- 
quished,” and pretend to tear my coat ; then he 
imitated the pompous arrival of old Mitching, and 
made me repeat what I had said to him. And, 
finally, he would sit down, and laugh, and vow it 
was the best thing he had ever heard of. 

I was quite a hero on this Saturday night ; but 
every now and then I felt very sorry for poor Mr. 
Stanton, who was sitting at home with his wounded 
face and his wounded pride. I pictured him sitting 


126 


CHRISTOPHER KENRICK. 


there moodily, unhappy, and fretful, and wished I 
had not mentioned his humiliation to Folgate and 
Fitzwalton. 

My fancy picture, however, did not do justice to 
Mr. Noel Stanton, who was busily preparing on this 
Saturday night a letter to Mr. Mitching, detailing 
my scoundrely conduct, and painting me in the 
character of a would-be assassin. On the next day, 
when I was sitting with the Mitchings at dessert, 
this letter arrived. Mr. Noel Stanton knew well 
enough when we should be comfortable and happy 
over our wine, and he timed the delivery of his letter 
accordingly, 

Mr. Mitching opened it, fixed it through his gold- 
rimmed glasses, balanced them on his nose at it, 
scowled at it, coughed at it, and looked exceedingly 
surprised at it. 

“What is the matter, George?” said Mrs. Mitch- 
ing. 

“ I shall be sorry for you to know, my dear ; you, 
above everybody.” 

“ Dear me ! Something dreadful !” said the lad}^, 
with a sarcastic smile. 

“ It is dreadful,” said Mitching, looking at me. 

“ Give me the letter,” said Mrs. Mitching. 

“ No, my dear, I would rather not ! it is a serious 
charge against Mr. Kenrick.” 

The old gentleman laid down his glasses as he 
said this, and seemed to be preparing himself for the 


OUGHT TO BE IN “ BELL’s LIFE.” 127 

delivery of an oration ; but Mrs. Hitching cut down 
his aspirations very summarily. 

“ Don’t be silly, George, and don’t make a speech 
until I have seen what it is about.” 

The lady took the letter, read it, and deliberately 
said she did not believe it. 

“Don’t you, indeed!” exclaimed Mr. Hitching. 
“ Dear me 1” 

“ No, I do not, dear me,” said Mrs. Hitching, in a 
mocking voice. “ And if it were true, the story 
might have kept until Monday.” 

“ But Mr. Stanton heard Mr. Hitching invite me 
here to-day,” I said, for I soon guessed what the 
letter was about. 

“ Then it is positively mean to send that note at 
this time,” she said. “ Never mind it now, Mr. Ken- 
rick ; it can rest until to-morrow. One story is good 
until another is told.” 

“ Thank you, Mrs. Hitching : I was not in the 
wrong, I assure you.” 

“ I quite believe you,” she said ; but Mr. Mitchiug 
looked grave, and said it was a very unfortunate 
occurrence. 

And so it was to all appearance on the next day ; 
for it compelled me to resign my engagement on the 
Lindford Herald. Mrs. Hitching was on my side, 
and begged me to stay; old Hitching himself 
thought Mr. Stanton might overlook the matter, and 
I believe he would have done so, but from the mo- 


128 


CHRISTOPHER KENRICK. 


ment tliat Hitching said one of us must certainly 
resign, I resigned, and held to it. I told Esther it 
would be all for the best ; I needed extended expe- 
rience ; I would work hard and seek a higher posi- 
tion than that which I held at Lindford. 

Without a moment’s delay I began to study the 
advertising columns of the Times ; and the day came 
when I made a very unhappy discovery of a vacancy 
on the press in a seaport town, three hundred miles 
away from dear old Lindford city. 



CHAPTEE XIV. 


FAMILY CRITICISM — A CHAPTER BY THE WAY, CHIEFLY 
ON SOME “ SIGNS OF THE TIMES.” 

For some special reasons, best known to herself, 
my wife is particularly silent with regard to the latest 
instalment of these particulars of my life. Perhaps 
she is thinking about the engagement of our youngest 
daughter with Mr. Felton. Since I obtained for 
that gentleman the living at Hallow, to which he was 
appointed last month, our reverend friend is less at- 
tentive to Cissy. Mrs. Kenrick went so far as to 
suggest, the other day, that he intended to break 
off the match. I confess that I have noticed some 
slight change in Mr. Felton’s manner ; but this may 
be set down to increased spiritual and temporal 
responsibilities. Whilst I am thinking what might 
be the effect of any coolness on Mr. Felton’s part 
toward Cissy, my two girls come into my study, and 
the following conversation ensues. 

Bess. Well, father, and how do you like the family 
contribution to Christopher Kenrick ? 

3Iyself. I think the extra chapters are interesting. 
I hope they will not confuse the reader in his esti- 
mate of the general story. 

Bess. Your audience, sir, can easily avoid that. 
The reader may skip these extra chapters. 

6 * 


130 


CHKISTOPHER KENPJCK. 


Cissy. I should certainly skip them, if I were 
what pa calls an outsider. 

Bess. It is a good thing to know how to skip 
judiciously. Some of Mudie’s readers must be 
adepts in the art. That terrible “ Woman in 
White,” how much one skipped there to get at the 
engrossing secret ! 

Cissy. You should read ‘‘ The Moonstone that 
is the best of Wilkie Collins’s books, and you really 
need not skip much there. The characters are well 
drawn, and it is delightfully romantic to have those 
Indians coming upon the scene so mysteriously.. 

Myself. You did not skip “ The Epicurean,” I dare 
be bound, Bess, nor “ Esmond,” nor the stories in 
that volume of De Quincy, which I observed in your 
hand the other day. 

Cissy. No, pa ; I could read those without skip- 
ping. It is like having the nightmare to read De 
Quincy, for all that ; but I skipped “ Ivanhoe,” which 
you praise so much, and “ The Antiquary,” and 
“ Felix Holt.” 

Bess. Eelix Holt is a bore — Adam Bede turned 
into a politician, and a Eadical, too — insufferable, 
but a fine book, nevertheless ; and “ Komola” is a 
classic that will live for ages. I agree with Cissy 
about Scott : he gives you too much upholstery — 
leaves nothing to the imagination. His descriptions 
are inventories. 

Myself. Who would be an author, even a great 
author, if this be the fate of the best and proudest, 


FAMILY CKITICISM. 


131 


to be torn piecemeal bj a couple of chattering girls ? 
And what do you say to our friend Christopher ? 

Bess, He is a very amusing young gentleman, and 
more especially, perhaps, now that he is fairly in 
love. I still prefer the actress to Miss Wilton. 

Cissy, Oh, Bessie ! A designing thing, evidently. 
Miss Belmont ! The “ megs” are great fun, I think. 
Fancy Miss Priscilla thinking Christopher wanted 
to see her. I have had a letter from Tom. He had 
no notion, pa, that you were so well up in the mys- 
teries of the art of self-defence. Yesterday he was 
hunting with Lord Melville’s hounds, and the BeWs 
Life chapter was discussed over dinner. Lord M. 
said it was a pity the story did not treat of a higher 
grade of society than that of newspaper fellows and 
actors. 

Myself, Indeed ! Lord Melville’s grandfather was 
a soap-boiler ; but go on, my child. 

Cissy, That is all, papa. 

[Enter Mrs. .Keneick.] 

Myself, I thought I heard a carriage drive up ! 

Mrs, Kenrich, Yes; your friend. Father Ellis, as 
you insist upon calling him (though there is no more 
strenuous opponent of the Komish Church), has 
called. He says he intends to spend the evening 
with you. Shall he come up ? 

3Iyself, By aU means ; and if he be conversation- 
ally inclined, he shall contribute to our extra chap- 
ters. 


132 


CHEISTOPHER KENRICK. 


Mrs. Kenrich. I wish all your chapters were at an 
end, my dear. 

Mysdf. Is that for publication, or only for the 
author’s private ear ? 

Mrs. Kenrich. Don’t be absurd, Christopher. Mr. 
Ellis is coming up without waiting for my reply. 

[Enter Mr. Ellis, a gray-bearded pronounced par- 
son. He has recently introduced the surplice into 
the choir of the adjoining parish, and fought an 
epistolary battle with an extreme Evangelical in the 
county paper. He tells me that he was determined 
to come up to my sanctum as soon as he learnt 
from the servant that only the young ladies were 
with me. He laughs merrily at his own temerity, 
shakes hands, sits down, and says he is come for a 
chat.] 

Myself. We are rejoiced to see you, most reverend 
Father of the Faithful, I say. Your last letter in the 
Advertiser, on what you call the superstitious phase 
of your argument with your brother in the Church, 
was very well put. By the way, that was a shrewd 
remark of Doctor Johnson’s, Parson, — “ It is wonder- 
ful that five thousand years have now elapsed since 
the creation of the world, and still it is undecided 
whether there has ever been an instance of the spirit 
of any person appearing after death ; all argument 
is against it, all belief for it.” 

Father Ellis. Equally shrewd the remark, that 
‘‘ Superstition is but the fear of belief, religion the 
confidence.” 


FAMILY CRITICISM. 


133 


Myself, No shop, Parson, no shop ; no Irish 
Church ; no attacks on Gladstone. Let us chat in 
peace. I could have given you some notes for your 
paper. I had been reading Seafield’s collection of 
“ Dreams,” Home’s “ Incidents in My Life,” Binns 
“On Sleep,” and Symonds on the same subject* 
The result would have worked up well with your 
theological illustrations of superstition. 

Bess, I suspect, Mr. Ellis, it was Mr. Kenrick who 
TVTote that leader on your correspondence, the moral 
of which was the national decay of England. 

Parson, Indeed, indeed! That was too bad of 
you, sir. 

Cissy. I firmly believe in ghosts. 

Myself, There is not a man whom you meet but 
in his quiet, graver moments will tell you of strange, 
unaccountable things that have happened to him, 
frankly disclosing to you that vein of superstition 
which runs through every mind. There seems to be 
a deep-seated love of the marvellous, a fear of dark- 
ness, in the composition of us all ; it is as if the 
mind had some big secret of its own, and only now 
and then let us have a glimpse of it sufficient to ex- 
cite our speculation and wonder. Yet we laugh at 
ghosts, and pity the men and women who believe in 
Spiritualism. 

Parson. We may believe in spirits without credit- 
ing them with the humiliating practices of upsetting 
tables and chairs. Yet, friends of mine have seen 
some of these strange phenomen/i which, it is said. 


134 


CHRISTOPHER KENRICK. 


attend Mr. Home. We live in extraordinary times. 
I am not going to preach, and I do not believe that 
the Good Father would let our spirits wander about 
the universe subject to the beck and call of Mr. 
Home or any other mortal ; but it has occurred to 
me, often of late, that just prior to the coming of our 
Saviour, the spirit world was in a state of very great 
commotion : they that were evil more particularly 
gave evidence of continual agitation. May it not be 
that the second coming is at hand ? for not in Eng- 
land alone do we hear of singular and strange mani- 
festations. In that great continent of America, 
where the people are freed from the traditions of 
the past, the land is broken up into strange sects 
and peoples ; and this is the centre of the fiercest 
of modern superstitions. Kely upon it, the great 
day is at hand. 

Myself, Now, my dear Parson, you said you would 
not preach ; and here you are in the midst of a sermon. 

Parson, Satan shall go out to deceive the nations 
which are in the four quarters of the earth ; and 
this will be a time of evil indeed, of wars and rumors 
of wars, and false prophets ; armies shall war and 
destroy each other ; another Gog and Magog shall 
arise, and come against the holy city; then shall 
come the end of all things by fire, and then the 
Millennium. “ They shall build the old wastes, they 
shall raise up the former desolations, and they shall 
repair the waste cities, the desolations of many gen- 
erations,” saith Isaiah — 


FAMILY CEITICISM. 


135 


Myself. I rise to order. Next Sunday I will be 
with you at church, and will listen to your biblical 
views of our manners and customs, and pay the 
greatest possible attention to your moral philosophy. 
For the present let us look a little into the lay ele- 
ment of the question. Moreover, I intend to print 
this conversation as a dialogue ; so we must make 
it popular in the better sense of the term. Carlyle 
talks of superstition as the horrid incubus (now pass- 
ing away without return), which dwelt in darkness, 
shunning the light, with all its racks and poison- 
chalices and foul sleeping-draughts. Now it seems 
to me. Parson, there is as much of this darkness of 
superstition about us now as ever there was in the 
past. 

Parson. In all ages, amongst all peoples, there 
has existed a belief in spirits, witchcraft, dreams, 
charms, and other mysteries promoted by the Kom- 
ish Church in the days of — 

Myself. Parson, Parson, you are in the pulpit 
again. Let us have no Komish Church in this dis- 
cussion. I say that the only difference between 
those older days of darkness and the present is, that 
we do not burn witches and pillory Spiritualists, 
because we don’t believe in them, and for some time 
past we have pitied their dupes ; but, now-a-days, 
so many intellectual people shake their heads and 
make confessions of “spiritual phenomena,” that 
you are puzzled what to think or say about it. Is 
it that we are really “ shooting Niagara” in down- 


136 


CHEISTOPHEE KENEICK. 


right earnest, or are we in the midst of a darkness 
which is simply the forerunner of a purer light — a 
better day ? 

Parson. St. John in his Revelations — 

Myself. We know all about that, Parson. Gum- 
ming has done it. I am sure you don’t want me to 
think you are a disciple of the modern prophet’s. 

Parson. I will be even with you next Sunday eve- 
ning, mon ami. You shall hear what St. John says, 
and we will discuss false prophets, too. 

Myself. If there were nothing worse than Spiritu- 
alism abroad. Parson, one would not feel so un- 
happy about the signs of the times. Strange beliefs, 
irreligion, weird conceits, luxurious living, an ab- 
sence of female modesty, depraved and degTaded 
tastes, marked the decline and fall of the classic 
cities. The blackest chapter in the history of modern 
manners and customs, it seems to me, will be that 
which relates to our women. The fashionable news- 
papers and those of a higher class, which go in for 
politics, literature, and satire, are full of stories of the 
degeneracy of our women. Aping the demi-monde, 
talking slang, turning dressing for society into 
undressing, reading the worst of the French novels, 
and discussing freely with men questions which are 
not for mixed debate, our young women, it would 
appear, have lost all that native modesty which was 
our moral strength, our glory, and our pride. In 
keeping with all this are the extravagant fashions, 
to be dated from that imitating of a certain skirt 


FAMILY CRITICISM. 


137 


introduced by the Empress of the French, and 
copied with disgusting extravagance by the British 
female. Our women have gradually degenerated 
since then, until, according to all accounts, they 
are drifting further and further away from all the 
good old ties and landmarks of modesty and vir- 
tue. 

Parson. I don’t believe it. 

Mrs. Kenrich. Thank you, Mr. Ellis, nor do I. 

Bess. Nor does father; he is only putting the 
case to develop his own thoughts about it. 

Myself.. The newspapers say all this is true. 

Parson. It is simply sensational work. The 
“ Girl of the Period” is a gross and wicked libel. 

Mysdf. Perhaps so far as our country girls are 
concerned ; but what about town ? 

Parson. Still a libel. That nonsense, the other day, 
about women wearing false ears. There was noth- 
ing in it. Our young ladies have been maligned as 
much as the parsons. Newspaper gossippers must 
earn their living: multa docet fames. The women 
are as good now as ever they were, and not a whit 
less beautiful — a little forward in their manners; 
but they only reflect the character of the age. 
Everything is fast now-a-days. Steam and elec- 
tricity have worked their way into the national life. 
As for degeneracy, I see more declining and falling 
in those secret societies, trades-unions, and Feni- 
anism, than in the alleged degeneracy of female 
modesty. 


138 


CHRISTOPHER KENRICK. 


Myself. I congratulate the ladies upon so worthy 
a champion. 

Parson. Infidelity is the great plague-spot of the 
times — infidelity and greed. The Church does not 
say enough to her people about these things. Our 
public men are not the outspoken honest fellows of 
the days of Pitt and Fox. The Golden Calf has 
willing worshippers in the highest quarters ; and 
that old spirit of loyalty, that practical, earnest, 
thorough-going love of Fatherland, which was alive 
in the early days, is dying out. We have too much 
freedom, sir, considerably too much. 

Myself. Too much abuse of it. 

Parson. Too much of it, sir : look at the state of 
the labor market ; look at our railways ; look at our 
great companies ; look at our public meetings. 
Free trade, sir, is the cause of the distress now ap- 
parent everywhere in the country. 

Myself. Parson, Parson ! 

Parson. You will not let me preach, so you must 
permit me to prate. I say our liberties are too 
great. Working men have liberty to combine 
against the commercial interests of their country ; 
liberty to intimidate, liberty to kill. Public men 
have liberty to spout treason, and newspapers 
liberty to print it. The foreigner has liberty to 
enter our ports, and undersell us ; and liberty to 
buy our coals and other raw materials untaxed, to 
enable him to do so. 

Myself. Once more I rise to order. We were 


FAMILY CRITICISM. 


139 


talking of superstition, and as it is the ghostly 
period of the year — 

Cissy. Don’t say that, papa. 

Myself. Ghosts come in with Christmas, love. 

Bess. Only in Magazines and Illustrated pa- 
pers. 

Parson. Free trade is superstition. 

Myself. Parson, Parson! this is worse than a 
sermon. I insist upon returning to our original 
topic. The latest phase of so-called Spiritualism is 
the most startling of all. I think it is a Frenchman 
who has introduced it. He lays a sheet of paper 
and pencil upon a tombstone, walks away a short 
distance, returns, and finds upon the paper the sig- 
nature of the person interred, written in the manner 
of the man as he lived. 

Parson. A mountebank’s trick, that is all. It is a 
surprising thing that these raisers of ghosts do not 
give them something useful to do. I believe in 
spirits, my friend ; but this is not the work of 
spirits. Contemplate for one moment the doings of 
the spirits, as narrated in the only authentic record 
of spiritual work. The good Father of us all em- 
ploys not immortal spirits in such labor as this. 
He would not even permit the damned to be tor- 
tured with such humiliations as the spiritualists 
invent for them. 

Myself. Have you ever met Mr. Home, the chief 
of spiritualists ? He who lost that Chancery suit, 
involving thirty thousand pounds ? 


140 


CHRISTOPHER KENRICK. 


Parson, I have; but he spiritualized not in my 
presence. 

Bess. I thought he was a dreadful impostor until 
I saw him, and now I hardly know what to make of 
him. 

Parson. Make of him ! make fun of him, as Punch 
does. 

Bess. That is not quite so easy, when you know 
him ; but I think he is a madman. 

Cissy. If you want to read a ghost story, Mr. Ellis, 
Home’s “Incidents” is nothing but a ghost story 
from the beginning to the end. 

Parson, I have a theory about this fellow. He is 
a mesmerist ; he mesmerizes his sitters, and takes 
possession of their common sense. 

Myself. I was curious enough the other day to 
search the Chancery files, and make the following 
abstract from this person’s affidavit as an example 
of the spread of superstition in high quarters. Here 
it is. I intended to use it some day in an essay on 
hallucination. This is what Mr. Home says of him- 
self. I am surprised the newspapers did not publish 
the narrative : — 

“ I was bom in Scotland, on the 20th March, 1833, and from 
my earliest childhood I have been subject to the occasional hap- 
pening of singular physical phenomena in my presence, which are 
most certainly not produced by me or by any other person in con- 
nection with me. I have no control over them whatever. They 
occur irregularly, and even when I am asleep. Sometimes I am 
many months, and once I have been a year without them. They 
will not happen when I wish ; and my will has nothing to do 


FAMILY CRITICISM. 


141 


witli Uiem. 1 cannot account for them further than by supposing 
them to be etfected by intelligent beings, or spirits. Similar phe- 
nomena occur to many other persons. In the United States of 
America, I believe about eleven millions of rational people, as 
well as a very great number in every country in Europe, believe 
as I do, that spiritual beings of every grade, good and bad, can, 
and do, at times, manifest their presence to us. I invariably 
caution people against being misled by any apparent communi- 
cations from them. These phenomena occurring in my presence 
have been witnessed by thousands of intelligent and respectable 
persons, including men of business, science, and literature, under 
circumstances which would have rendered, even if I desired it, 
all trickery impossible. They have been witnessed repeatedly, 
and in their own private apartments — where any contrivance of 
mine must have been detected — by their Majesties the Emperor 
and Empress of the French, their Majesties the Emperor, Empress, 
and late Empress -Dowager of Russia, their Imperial Highnesses 
the Grand Duke and Duchess Constantine of Russia, and the 
members of their august family, their Majesties the King of Prus- 
sia, the late King of Bavaria, the present and late King of Wur- 
temburg, the Queen of Holland, and the members of the Royal 
family of Holland, and many of these august personages have 
honored, and I believe still honor me with their esteem and good- 
will, as I have resided in some of their palaces as a gentleman, 
and their guest — not as a paid or professional person. They have 
had ample opportunities, which they have used, of investigating 
these phenomena, and of inquiring into my character. I have 
resided in America, England, France, Italy, Germany, and Rus- 
sia, aud in every country I have been received as a guest and 
friend by persons in the highest position in society, who were 
quite competent to discover and expose, as they ought to have 
done, anything like contrivance on my part to produce these 
phenomena. I do not seek, and never have sought, the acquaint- 
ance of these exalted personages. They have sought me, and I 
have thus had a certain notoriety thrust upon me. I do not take 
money, and never have taken it, although it has been repeatedly 


142 


CHRISTOPHER KENRICK. 


offered me, for or in respect of these phenomena, or the com- 
munications which sometimes appear to be made by them. I am 
not in the habit of receiving those who are strangers to me, and 
I never force the subject of spiritualism on any one’s attention. I 
trust that I am a sincere Christian. I conscientiously believe — 
as all the early Christians did — that man is continually surrounded 
and protected or tempted by good and evil spirits. I have, in my 
circle of friends, many who were not only infidels but atheists, 
until they became convinced by the study of these phenomena 
of the truths of immortality; and their lives have been greatly 
improved in consequence. Some of the phenomena in question 
are noble and elevated ; others appear to be grotesque and un- 
dignified. For this I am not responsible any more than I am for 
the many grotesque and undignified things which are undoubt- 
edly permitted to exist in the material world. I solemnly swear 
that I do not produce the phenomena aforesaid, or in any way 
whatever aid in producing them. In 1858, 1 married a Russian 
lady of noble family, who was a goddaughter of the late Emperor 
Nicholas, and educated by him. She died in 1862, and by her I 
have one son, christened ‘ Gregoire,’ but alluded to in the con- 
versations and letters, hereinafter set forth, by the pet name of 
‘ Sacha.’ The present Emperor of Russia has graciously con- 
sented to be his godfather, and the Grand Duchess Constantine 
his godmother, on the occasion of his being baptized into the 
Greek Church, which is to take place.” 


Wliat do you think of that, sir ? 

Parson. Human credulity is boundless, and wis- 
dom is not always to be found beneath the diadem. 
Our forefathers would have settled the whole business 
by burning Home and his book. 

Mijself. That is the very thing he says himself ; 
but he gives us some curious facts which bear upon 
the character of his own professed power. In 1841, 


FAMILY CRITICISM. 


143 


Dr. Eeid Clanny, a physician of Sunderland, pub- 
lished an authoritative report of the remarkable ill- 
ness of one Mary Jobson, a girl of thirteen. Strange 
knockings frequently took place near her bed, and 
strains of music were heard, as is said to be the 
case with Mr. Home. A voice was also heard in 
the room, and sometimes this voice whispered to 
people in other houses, bidding them go and see the 
patient. This voice told the doctor on one occasion 
that Mary’s own spirit had fled, and a new one had 
taken possession of her body ; all this time the child 
being bed-ridden. At length Mary Jobson was sud- 
denly raised from her extreme illness. The voice 
which had promised a miraculous cure, told the at- 
tendants to lay out the girl’s clothes and leave the 
room, all but an infant of two years old. After a 
quarter of an hour’s absence, the voice called to 
them, “ Come in and when they entered, they 
found Mary sitting up, dressed, and perfectly well, 
with the infant upon her knee. In 1732, the London 
newspapers contained accounts of a girl being 
haunted by a spirit which replied to her by knocks, 
and at Shepton Mallet, in 1657, a woman was exe- 
cuted for having, as it was supposed, bewitched a 
youth, who every now and then was lifted into the 
air by some unseen power. As for knockings, scores 
of country people will tell you of noises heard before 
death, distinct knocks, which Mr. Home tells us are 
spiritual communications. 

Parson. Luther thought he heard the devil crack- 


144 


CHRISTOPHER KENRICK. 


ing nuts in his chamber at Wurtzburg. [A long 
exclamation of “ Oh ! Mr. Ellis,” from Cissy.] 

Myself. Which has not escaped Mr. Home, who 
must certainly be credited with some ability in 
fighting his side of the spiritualistic question. 

Parson. The spirituahsts make a great point of 
their visions, do they not ? 

Myself. Home professes to see visions, converse 
with spirits, and, according to their own testimony, 
this is a common thing with believers. 

[Mrs. Kenrick begs w^e will excuse Cissy and her- 
self, and thus the talkers are reduced to three.] 
Parson. And do we not all see visions ? — do we 
not all converse with spirits in dreamland ? but it is 
so rare a thing for the Divine Majesty to reveal 
himself to His children in dreams, that the habit of 
interpretation has gone out ; and moreover, God 
having already given us all that is necessary for our 
salvation, we have no need of dreams and visions to 
guide and assist us. The inspired dreamers of the 
Bible, — look at the nature and character and im- 
portance of their dreams. What a sublimity, what 
a breadth^ what a grandeur of symbolism there was 
in thosMHsions! The spirits of the Bible record 
knocke^Hon no tables, my friend, tilted no sofas, 
played upon no banjos. Bah ! 

Myself. And yet. Parson, just now you seemed 
ha^f inclined to believe in spirits. 

Parson. Yes, as Milton believed — 


FAMILY CRITICISM. 


145 


“ Millions of spiritual creatures walk the earth 
Unseen, both when we wake and when we sleep ; 

All these with ceaseless praise his works behold 
Both day and night. How often from the steep 
Of echoing hill or thicket have we heard 
Celestial voices to the midnight air, 

Sole, or responsive each to other’s note, 

Singing then- great Creator ! Oft in bands, 

While they keep watch, or nightly rounding walk, 
With heavenly touch of instrumental sounds 
In full harmonic numbers joined, their songs 
Divide the night, and lift our souls to heaven.” 

Mysdf, A good motto for tlie Spiritualist’s book ! 
He must have missed this most appropriate quota- 
tion, or surely he would have used it. 

Parson, Unfortunately, Home’s music and spirit- 
ual doings lift our thoughts not to heaven, but to 
Home. 

Myself, Many men have predicted their own 
deaths through dreams and tokens. 

Parson, Death has often signified its approach to 
persons through some subtle instinct, perhaps ex- 
cited by the gradual decay of the body, and thus 
communicated to the brain. There are many in- 
stances of the extraordinary fulfilment of dreams. 
In the early days of Harvey, the discoverer of the 
circulation of the blood, he was travelling to Padua. 
At Dover he showed his pass, and the governor 
would not let him go by the packet-boat ; he took 
him prisoner, in fact. “ Why do you detain me ?^’ 
asked Harvey. “ It is my will,” said the governor. 

7 


146 


CHRISTOPHER KENRICK. 


ITlie vessel sailed, and was wrecked, all hands per- 
ishing. The governor then told Harvey that he saw 
him in a dream the night before, and had a warning 
to stop him. But what is there remarkable in this ? 
God has his own way of using his instruments. 
Harvey had a mission to fulfil, and Heaven saved 
him for it. Surely we do not pray to God to help 
and watch over us, and then doubt His power and 
His will to do so. 

Myself, Yet you said just now the Almighty had 
ceased to interfere specially, by the means of visions, 
in the government of the world. 

Parson. Did I ? Then I meant it not ; for have 
we not scores of verified instances where He has 
put justice on the track of crime in dreams ? Look 
at the case of the robbery and murder of Stockden, 
in 1698, discovered and avenged through the dreams 
of a neighbor ; and Maria Martin in the Bed Barn, 
for that matter. 

Myself. Then 3^ou believe in Swedenborg’s visions? 

Parson. I said not that. Swedenborg was mad. 

Myself. Yet some persons have dreams that come 
true. 

Parson. Insanity is a continual dream. 

Myself. But dreaming is not insanity. 

Parson. Certainly not ; often quite the reverse. 
Condillac, the metaphysician, completed important 
speculations in his sleep. Franklin thought out 
matters of moment in his dreams, until he regarded 
his dreams with a certain superstitious awe. These 


FAMILY CRITICISM. 


147 


great and active intellects were simply at work 
whilst the body rested. 

Myself, But what about the so-called waking or 
magnetic sleep in which the modern seers have reve- 
lations ? What about those wide domains of clair- 
voyance, mesmerism, second-sight, electro-biology, 
of Avhich we hear so much in these modern days ? 

Parson, Ah ! there we enter upon a wide sea of 
speculation, and are getting out of our depth, friend. 

Myself, Whither we have been drifting for some 
time past, most grave and reverend father ; and lest 
we founder, I cry back to terra firma again, and pro- 
pose that we leave the world to take its own course : 
it is clear there is more in heaven and earth than is 
dreamt of in our philosophy. 

Parson, And methinks, friend Kenrick, we have 
but weakly pondered by the shore of the great sea 
which lies before us with ten thousand wonders 
awaiting the scrutinizing eye of the bold and faith- 
ful and God-fearing discoverer ; but even to the 
best, and bravest, and purest, and most Christian- 
like, the famous maxim of Horace will nevertheless 
apply — “ Nec scire fas est omnial' 

[When Father Ellis had said good-night, Bessie 
pronounced our conversation interesting and intel- 
lectual.] 

Myself, I fear it may bore our Kenrick friends. 

Bess, Not at all, father ; print it ; you should at 
least have one heavy chapter in the extra pages. 

Myself, I wish our friend Mr. Felton were as 


148 


♦ CHEISTOPHER EENKICK. 


lively a neighbor as Father Ellis, Bess. I fear your 
mother is uneasy about him. 

Bess. I think mamma took Cissy away for the 
purpose of talking to her about Mr. Felton. His 
manner latterly has certainly been somewhat pat- 
ronizing. 

Mysdf. Nonsense, my love ; that cannot be. He 
knows that it was I who procured Hallow for him. 

Bess. Everybody knows it ! 

We retire after this, and at bedtime Mrs. Kenrick 
is full of strange notions about Mr. Felton. Cissy 
has been weeping. Mrs. K.’s trouble, and our 
daughter’s grief, carry me back to my own early 
days, and I remember the pangs that I suffered in 
Harbourford and elsewhere. With a doubting hand, 
upon the next day, I prepare this extra-preliminary 
chapter, and leave poor Cissy and Mrs. Kenrick to 
talli over their mutual suspicions and anxieties, 
whilst I continue to build up this veracious record 
of my own course of love and adventure. 



CHAPTER XV. 


IN WHICH I CONTINUE TO STUDY THE “ TIMES.” 

The autumn was coming on. The ivy flapped 
limply against the walls of the old church that filled 
up the little window of my office. The wind went 
soughing up the narrow lane, carrying stray leaves 
away to the river. The cathedral bells fell flat and 
heavily on the ear. The damp atmosphere seemed 
to get into your clothes and down your throat. Mr. 
Noel Stanton passed solemnly into his room wdthout 
a word. Old Mitching balanced his glasses at me 
in a melancholy, sympathetic fashion. Only the 
printers, and Mrs. Mitching, when I saw them, looked 
smilingly at me. I had evidently risen in the esti- 
mation of one and the other. If I had wished it, 
Mrs. Mitching’s influence would have kept me there 
in preference to Mr. Noel Stanton ; but I was proud 
and ambitious, and it seemed brave to sacrifice my- 
self. 

Another influence at work was my desire to get 
those several hundred pounds, which Tom Folgate 
said were necessary before a young fellow could 
marry and settle down. There Tvere larger and 
more important cities than Lindford, larger and 
more important papers than the Lindford Herald. 


150 


CHRISTOPHER KENRICK. 


I would hardly have admitted this much to myself 
two years before ; but ‘‘ use doth breed a habit in a 
man.” Familiarity with those great glass windows 
bred in me so much use to them that they began to 
appear small. The splendidly-bound books that I 
had gazed at in those early days of exile, lost their 
old smell ; Mr. Mitching was not so magnificent a 
personage in my eyes ; his wife was a little less 
charming than heretofore ; and his sublime, his won- 
derful editor, had I not beaten him in a physical en- 
counter ? 

Lindford, too, was growing less in my eyes, and it 
grew less and less and less the more I waded through 
those long columns of “Wanteds” in the Times. 
What a great, wide world it indicated, this big, 
crowded sheet ! What hundreds of vacancies for 
clever, industrious people ! I could not help feeling 
sorry every now and then that I w^as not a capitalist. 
What partnerships I might have entered into if I 
had had a few hundred pounds — partnerships that 
would have brought me in, every year of my life, 
more than enough to have made a happy, luxurious 
home for Esther Wilton! Indeed, I could have 
made enough money for a long time by lending, to 
struggling tradesmen and others, small sums for 
short periods. There were scores who would rejoice 
to pay double the sum lent, in return for fifty or a 
hundred pounds, to meet pressing engagements. I 
suppose these persons, however, speedily got assist- 
ance. What a wonderful world it seemed to me 


I CONTINUJi TO STUDY THE “TIMES.” 151 

from this careful study of the Times' sheet ! Two 
hundred pounds a year for five shillings, one man 
offered. It almost took my breath away. I marked 
the advertisement with red ink, to show Tom Fol- 
gate. Another person offered two pounds a week 
on commission to travelling agents. Surely I had 
only to pick and choose here, and select what my 
income should be. My common-sense, however, 
every now and then knocked down the suddenly con- 
structed castles that Hope would raise out of these 
advertising materials ; but “ it never yet did hurt,” 
Shakspeare says, “ to lay down likelihoods, and 
forms of hope.” How many hopeful, exciting hours 
I passed on that high stool in the Lindford newspa- 
per office ! 

Oh, that sheet of the Times, how I read it through 
and through, and wondered about the people who 
published day by day those strange and romantic 
advertisements ! I tried to think what had become 
of those people who were missing ; and my liveliest 
interest was excited in those who had left their 
homes, and whose return was so earnestly implored. 
They did not advertise for me when I ran away ; 
they did not publish to all the world that “ C. K. 
would be forgiven, if he would come back to his sor- 
rowing parents.” In good truth, when C. K. had 
repented, and wanted to be friends again, and wrote 
long letters to Stoneyfield, he received as little atten- 
tion as Clarissa Harlowe got from her dreadful home. 
Once my father had said he would call and see me ; 


152 


CHRISTOPHER KENRICK. 


but bis promise bad not been fulfilled. I could not 
belp thinking of these things in presence of that 
second column of the Times. And then my eyes 
would wander to the advertisements of ships about 
to sail for foreign lands. 

“ Like ships that sailed for sunny isles, 

But never came to shore.” 

Would that be the fate of my hopes and dreams? 
I was about to sail for sunny isles. “Like that 
proud, insulting ship, which Caesar and his fortune 
bare at once,” I was outward bound for aggrandize- 
ment. I had anchored here in Lindford in a long 
and happy calm ; but my days were numbered here 
— my bark must to sea once more. Would it go 
down in some terrible tempest, or reach those sunny 
isles of which I dreamed so often ? 

Treacherous, tempting Times ! I wandered through 
thy offers of wealth and fame for many days ; and 
at last bound myself to Carnaby Muddle, Esq., of 
Harbourford, to do his behests in the capacity of 
reporter-in-chief of the Harbourford Messenger. Why 
did I not select some other prize from the hundreds 
which were within my grasp every day? How 
should I know that in changing from the joint sov- 
ereignty of Hitching and Stanton, I should be “ like 
to a ship that having ’scaped a tempest, is straight- 
way calmed and boarded by a tyrant ?” 

How Esther and I talked of this distant land, this 


I CONTINUE TO STUDY THE “TIMES.” 153 

Harbourford, three hundred miles away from dear 
old Lindford ! I looked it out upon the map, and 
hunted up all its history through encyclopaedias. 
I told Esther about its docks, its assembly-rooms, 
its shipping, its theatre, and everything I could think 
of. I showed her a copy of the Messenger which 
Mr. Muddle had sent me, and told her by what post 
to expect it every week, marked with my work, 
every paragraph and report ticked off with my own 
pen. One night in particular I remember being 
especially eloquent and earnest in my arrangements 
with her, for the regulation of her conduct and my 
own, during the time that we were to be parted. 

“Now that we are engaged, Esther, you must be 
more courageous in taking your own part.” 

“ Yes, dear,” Esther replied in her soft, mild, trust- 
ing voice. 

“Barbara and Priscilla must not be allowed to 
order you to do this and do that, like the centurion 
whom they preached about at the cathedral last Sun- 
day. You are not a soldier to be commanded, nor a 
servant to be charged, ‘ Do this, and he doeth it.’ ” 

“ No,” said Esther, quietly. 

“ I must talk to your mother, before I go away, 
about it ; she ought not to permit it.” 

“ Mamma does not like to make a disturbance. It 
is all for the sake of peace and quietness.” 

“ Yes, my dear, that is the way of the world ; there 
are always people ready to walk upon those who 
prostrate themselves.” 


7 * 


154 


CHRISTOPHER KENRICK. 


It will not be for long,” Esther says. “ You will 
soon come and take me away, will you not?” 

“ That I will, my darling,” I reply, with sudden 
visions of happiness floating before me. 

‘‘Emmy is to be married soon,” she continues. 
“ Tom and Emmy have been talking about how they 
will furnish their house.” 

“ Yes, dear, and how ?” 

“ Emmy says she shall have a beautiful drawing- 
room, with all sorts of delicate things in it ; and the 
finest water-color paintings, real lace curtains, and 
a piano from Broadwoods’.” 

“ Does Tom say so ?” 

“Mr. Eolgate says she shall furnish just as she 
likes ; and Emmy is always talking of her arrange- 
ments ; it is quite delightful to hear her. She is 
going to have statuary all the way up the grand 
staircase, and a little black foot-boy or page.” 

“Is that what you would hke, Esther?” I say, 
with a touch of despair in my heart. 

“ I should like what you would like, Chris,” Esther 
replies, looking up into my face. 

“ I should like to give you all the wealth of the 
world, Esther. The home that Claude Melnotte 
described in the play last year, is nothing to the 
home which I would give you, Esther ; but I fear 
my house will be but a poor Melnotte’s cottage, 
after all.” 

Esther pressed my arm. She did not speak, and for 
a moment I feared the gaudy picture pleased her most. 


I CONTINUE TO STUDY THE “TIMES.” 155 

“ Could you be content with a husband who loved 
you dearly, were he poorer even than that poor gar- 
dener’s son ?” 

“If that husband were you, yes,” said Esther, 
promptly. “ I do not care for grandeur.” 

“A nice little house, Esther,” I go on, “with a 
neat kitchen, and a pleasant parlor, and a servant to 
scrub the floors, and sweep up the hearth, eh? 
Would that do ?” 

“ Oh, Chris, don’t talk to me as if the sort of house 
I am to live in will influence my love for you. When 
the time comes, take me where you will, I am yours 
forever.” 

“ My dear girl !” I exclaimed, embracing her. 
“ Spoken like a true and noble woman : we two 
shall And a home some day, Esther. If there be no 
grand staircases and statuary and servants in it, 
there will be two loving hearts, and without these, 
all the treasures of Peru will not make a happy 
home.” 

How well I remember those happy, loving, tender 
conversations by that old river in the Lindford 
meadows ! How fresh and life-like that girl in the 
lama frock, growing into the dignity and grace of 
early womanhood, comes up in my memory ! What 
a young, confiding, trusting pair we were! Am i 
that hopeful, bright-eyed young fellow, or have I 
mixed up in my mind some dream of Paul and Vir- 
ginia with those early days at Lindford. 

Emmy Wilton crops up in my mind to verify the 


156 


CHRISTOrHEE KENPJCK. 


reality of the picture. It is a pretty, graceful figure ; 
but there is something lurking behind in that black, 
deep-set eye, something in the curl of those red lips 
that veil a row of small white teeth, which is not 
easy of interpretation. Then that knowing toss of 
the head, and that little ringing artificial laugh. 
She was a schemer, this Emmy Wilton, a clever, 
designing, arch young woman, with a kind, affection- 
ate nature, spoiled by the dictation of Barbara and 
Priscilla, and the weak maudlin indifference of a 
silly mother. 

‘‘I have always been fighting my sisters,” she 
said to me, when I opened a conversation with her 
a day or two after I had urged Esther to resent 
their dictation, “ always, except w^hen I have been 
fighting my brother.” 

“ Esther and you have always agreed,” I said. 

‘‘ Yes ; only a brute could quarrel with her, and 
I’m not a brute,” Emmy replied, sharply. 

“ Do you think I am ?” 

» No.” 

“ Then why do you try to influence Esther against 
me ?” 

‘‘ Do I try ?” 

‘‘ Yes.” 

“ How do you know ? Does Esther tell you ?” 

No ; but you think I am not what you call a 
good match.” 

“ Do you think you are a good match, then ?” 

“ I love your sister with all my heart.” 


I CONTINUE TO STUDY THE “TIMES.” 157 

“And to show it, you propose to keep her and 
yourself on a hundred and fifty a year, or something 
of that sort, when she might marry, if she liked, a 
gentleman who could settle two thousand a year 
upon her.” 

“ But she does not love that person.” 

“ She would have done so if she had not seen you.” 

“ Indeed ! And this is your notion of love and 
marriage.” 

“ My notion !” said Emmy, tossing back a cluster 
of thick, black curls that crowded over her forehead. 
“ What is yours ?” 

I could feel that my poetic ideas of marriage 
would stand a good chance of being laughed at 
here, so I merely said : 

“ This is not your natural self. Miss Wilton ; I am 
sure you are above the common, grovelling idea 
that people should marry for money.” 

“ I don’t think a man has any right to marry if 
he cannot afford to keep a wife.” 

“ And you don’t think I can afford it ?” 

“ I am sure you cannot,” she replied, with a little 
hollow laugh. 

“ If I wait until I can,” I said, mortified at her 
coolness, “you will in the mean time not tamper 
with Esther’s feelings toward me ?” 

“ If my sister has made up her mind to marry 
you, nobody will shake her much. She is quiet and 
undemonstrative ; but she has a will of her own.” 

“ That is an evasion.” 


158 


CHEISTOPHEK KENRICK. 


“ I shall make no promises. For my part, if I 
were Esther, I should demand a full explanation 
from you concerning your familiarities with Miss 
Birt ; but more especially with Mademoiselle the 
actress. Miss Julia Belmont.” 

“Esther knows all about my acquaintance with 
those ladies,” I said, “ and is quite assured of the 
sincerity of my love for her.” 

“ Well, if she is satisfied, I suppose I ought to be. 
I know more of the world, Mr. Kenrick, than she 
does, if I am but six years older. We have both 
had rather a hard life, though nobody thinks it.” 

“ I have noticed that there is not as much con- 
sideration for you at home as there should be.” 

“ You are quite right, sir. We are children of a 
second husband, whose money has gone to pamper 
the first family, our elder sisters and brother. They 
sent me away from home when I was sixteen to be 
nursery-governess in Lady Snowdown’s family ; my 
father was his lordship’s architect. They sent me 
alone all the way to London, unprotected, and with- 
out a single introduction. Lady Snowdown was a 
disgrace to her sex. She drank like a common 
drab ; and one day I insisted upon coming home. 
Ever since then, I have had a bitter fight with these 
two elder ones. I claim as much right to be here 
as they, and I stay at home because I will, to spite 
them.” 

Emmy’s eyes flashed, as she said this ; and she 
threw back her curls defiantly. 


I CONTINUE TO STUDY THE “TIMES.” 159 

“ I admire your courage,” I said, warmly, “ as I 
have always admired your firmness of character, 
and loved you, if I may say so, for your kindness to 
your younger sister.” 

I took her hand here, and kissed it. My earnest- 
ness seemed to have made a good impression upon 
her. 

“ You think me a wretched, miserable girl,” she 
said, in a softer manner. 

“ No, no,” I hurriedly implied. 

“ Well, then, you have thought me so. You think 
I stand in the way of your love for Esther. My 
only thought is for her happiness, for her welfare. 
Those two persons, who call themselves my sisters, 
hate her worse than they hate me, because she is 
pretty and people say so. If anything happened to 
my poor, weak mother, they would drive her out 
into the world. They would do so now, were it not 
for me. A month ago, Priscilla obtained her an en- 
gagement to wait in a refreshment-room.” 

“ Good God !” I exclaimed. “ You do not say so?” 

“ I do.” 

“May the Lord punish Priscilla Wilton for her 
vile conduct !” 

“ The Lord seems to let things take their course 
pretty much as they like,” said Emmy, bitterly. “ If 
I have encouraged for Esther the attentions of a 
rich man, you see my reasons : it would give me 
joy, beyond imagination, to see her riding over 
them in a brougham and pair !” 


160 


CHRISTOPHEE KENRICK. 


“ Would it not give you more real satisfaction to 
see her married to an honest, hard-working fellow, 
whose only wish and object in life should be to 
minister to her happiness ?” I said, passionately. 

“ Perhaps, perhaps !” said Emmy, in reply. What 
do you think Barbara did, when Esther was seven 
years old ?” 

“ I cannot guess.” 

“ She took her into a room, locked the door, and 
cut off all her hair, out of Jealous spite. That was 
the only time my poor dead father struck any mem- 
ber of his family. As soon as it was reported to 
him, he beat Barbara with a horsewhip until she 
yelled. She was almost a woman, then ; and I saw 
her punishment, poor little Esther standing by, cry- 
ing bitterly, with all her pretty hair in her pina- 
fore.” 

“ You amaze me !” 

“ I tell you these things that you may understand 
what a family you seek to be connected with, but 
more particularly that you may understand why I 
have used a little influence against you. I shall do 
so no more. You are brave and honest ; make 
haste and try to be rich.” Emmy took my hand, 
as if it was the close of a bargain, and said, “We 
shall be friends in future,” with an air that seemed 
to say. We shall understand each other. 

When I told Tom Eolgate, afterward, that I had 
had a long conversation with her, he seemed dis- 
turbed. 


I CONTINUE TO STUDY THE “TIMES.’ 


161 


“ I don’t know what the devil to think of Emmy,” 
Tom said, thrusting his big hands into his pockets, 
and striding across the room. “ One day she says 
one thing, another day another.” 

“ She is a fine, noble-spirited young lady,” I said : 
“ perhaps a little worldly ; but she has lived in an 
exceptional school.” 

“ By the way, Kenny,” said Tom, “ Mrs. Hitching 
has been asking me to use my influence with you to 
stay in Lindford.” 

“ That is very kind on Mrs. Mitching’s part, Tom ; 
but my mind is made up. I have a big battle to 
fight. My soul’s in arms and eager for the fray.” 

“Well, all right, my boy; you are the best judge 
of your own actions.” 

“I am going to earn money enough to marry 
Esther ; and, Tom, I want you, in my absence, to 
be her guardian and protector. Will you ?” 

“ Yes, lad, if she needs one ; but I’m hardly the 
sort of fellow to have any authority over one so 
pretty and so young. Emmy is her best guardian 
angel ; but rely on this, Kenny, if I can do anything 
for you, my boy — ” 

“You can do that, Tom. Take care of my 
Esther.” 

“ I will. Shall Emmy and I take her with us to 
Eussia, if we go ?” 

“ I don’t understand you.” 

“I’ve had an offer to take the management of 
some engine works in Eussia, only this very day. 


162 


CHRISTOPHER KENRICK. 


The proper thing to do would be to marry Emmy, 
and be off,” said Tom, musing, as if he were talking 
to himself rather than to me. 

“ To Eussia ?” I said. 

“ Yes ; a capital appointment. Why, Kenny, you 
had better come along ; they will be sure to want an 
English correspondent. What a happy family we 
should make !” 

Upon the question of Tom’s earnestness in making 
this attractive suggestion, I cannot even satisfy my- 
self now. If ifc was a mere playful fancy, it was 
cruel to conjure up the thought of so much happi- 
ness without an idea of realizing it. Supposing he 
threw out the hint in downright earnestness, how 
much he and others may have lost in hopes unful- 
filled and bliss never consummated, it is painful to 
think of. In the evening of that day, when Tom 
and I went over to the Wiltons, and had a general 
sort of chat — a conversational cross-firing with 
Emmy and Esther — this plan was the subject of 
much lively and happy comment. Esther and I 
were quite ready, as we always had been, to take a 
humble place in life beside Tom and Emmy. We 
were to visit them, and ride out with them, and be 
always welcome at their house. They were to come 
and encourage us in our grand endeavor to make 
home happy on two hundred a year. 

Castles in Spain ! What magnificent palaces 
Esther and I built for noble Tom Eolgate and 
clever Emmy Wilton ! What snug, quiet, cozy, un- 


I CONTINUE TO STUDY THE “TIMES.” 


163 


pretending, birdcage-like cots we made for our- 
selves ! Happy days, billing and cooing and think- 
ing of making your nests; happy, happy days of 
early love. Thou singest truly, poet of the golden 
lyre— 

“ There’s nothing half so sweet in life 
As love’s young dream.” 



CHAPTEE XVI. 


ANOTHEE PARTING. 

“Well, sir, I must honestly confess,” said Mr. 
Hitching, planting firmly forward his right foot, and 
placing his right hand within the breast of his 
ample vest, “ indeed, I should be untrue to myself 
and to humanity did I not unreservedly say that I 
am sorry you are going to take your departure. I 
suppose it is quite three years since you first en- 
tered this establishment, an interesting but way- 
ward youth, rebelling against parental authority. 
Don’t interrupt me, sir, if you please, it is not often 
that I trouble you with any lengthened remarks.” 

How I wished that Mrs. Hitching had been there ! 

“ It is, I say, quite three years ago since you were 
first engaged upon the lAndford Herald^ and I am 
bound to say, that you have borne out the good 
opinion which Mrs. Hitching, in her great wisdom, 
then formed of your abilities ; but it would be wrong 
if I did not admit that it often occurred to me that 
a boy who would violently throw off the legitimate 
rule of paternal government would be most likely to 
rebel against a less authorized power.” 

“ But, Mr. Hitching — ” 

“ Permit me, sir, to finish what I have to say,” 


ANOTHEE PAETING. 


165 


went on the irrepressible proprietor, in his pompous 
voice, and pointing at me with his gold-rimmed 
glasses. “ You left your home because you were not 
properly appreciated, you quit this establishment 
because you could not brook the just control of your 
superior officer, and if you had been in the army, 
sir, you would have been degraded to the ranks for 
striking one who held a superior commission ; in- 
deed, I am not quite certain whether it would not 
have been a question of capital punishment. Do 
not be impatient, Mr. Kenny, I am only addressing 
you for your own benefit, and I — ” 

My pompous gentleman was interrupted at this 
point by a voice which said somewhat authoritatively, 
“ George ! George !” 

The effect was magical. In a moment, Mr. Mitch- 
ing assumed a soft, conciliatory manner, unplanted 
his right leg, took his hand out of his waistcoat, 
dropped the gold-rimmers, and said, sweetly, “ Yes, 
my love.” 

“ I want you,” said the voice from an inner room. 

“ Certainly, my dear,” and the gentleman disap- 
peared, saying tenderly, as he went, “ Be good 
enough to wait a moment, Mr. Kenrick.” 

Mr. Mitching’s assistant smiled at me significantly, 
and I duly acknowledged its meaning. Mitching 
was grand in his shop ; talked loud and strutted. 
He made speeches at the Town Council, and looked 
magnificently condescending in the street. But at 
Mrs. Mitching’s feet he laid down all his sovereignty. 


166 


CHEISTOPHEE KENEICK. 


changed his voice to a sweet falsetto, and purred 
like a cat with buttered feet. He loved this woman, 
nevertheless, — loved her as fond old men mostly love 
pretty young lively girls. He had never hoped to 
win this wayward beauty for his wife, but the lady 
had thought Hitching a good match, seeing that all 
the young men had only cared to flirt with her ; and 
Hitching was eternally grateful. 

“ Will you step into the house. Hr. Kenrick,” said 
Hitching, when he returned. “ Hrs. Hitching wishes 
to say good-bye to you.” 

I acted upon this command at once. Hrs. Hitch- 
ing, in a white morning-dress, daintily trimmed, met 
me as I entered, and shook my hand warmly. She 
looked very charming — her teeth were so white and 
her smile was so sweet. 

“ And you are really going to leave us ?” 

She put her soft, white hand upon my shoulder, 
and I cannot resist that old feeling of wonder, 
How came this pretty woman to marry old Hitch- 
ing? 

“Yes, Hrs. Hitching,” I reply. 

“I am very sorry, Christopher. How does Hr. 
Folgate take it ?” 

“ He is sorry,” I reply ; “ and so am I.” 

“ You like Hr. Folgate ?” she says, motioning me 
to a seat beside her. 

“ I do, indeed,” I reply. 

“ He is a dear good creature,” she says. “ Does 
he see much of that person— Hiss Wilton ?” 


ANOTHER PARTING. 


167 


“ Yes, they are to be married soon,” I reply. 

“ Indeed !” she says, and I notice the color rush 
into her cheeks. “ Do you think he loves the girl ?” 

“ I think so,” I say, marvelling at these questions. 

“ You think so, Kenny,” she says ; “ do you only 
think so ? Have you any reason to doubt it ?” 

“ Oh, no,” I say ; at which she seems disappointed. 

“I suppose you do not think he loves her as 
warmly as you love her sister. There, there, you 
need not blush ; I know all about it.” 

I smile with as much show of indifference as I 
can, and say, “ I suppose there are different degrees 
of love.” 

Ah, it is a very, very dangerous, dreadful thing, 
Kenny,” she replies. ‘‘ Be wary of it.” 

I made no reply. The situation is most embarrass- 
ing. The lady seeing this, takes my hand again, 
and says : 

‘‘Well, Mr. Kenrick, I wish you all the success 
and happiness in life which you deserve. Good- 
bye ! If there is anything which Mr. Mitching can 
do for you, write to me, and he shall do it.” 

I kissed her hand, she smiled in her own fascina- 
ting way, and I left her, feeling like one who had 
escaped from a pleasant kind of witchcraft. Mrs. 
Mitching was one of those women who would marry 
a man against his will, if she set her mind upon it. 
She was a fascinating, insinuating, soft-handed crea- 
ture ; but there was a lurking devil in her eye which 
could play strange autocratic pranks. 


168 


CHRISTOPHER KENRICK. 


When I returned to that glassy shop of gorgeous 
books and show of engravings, Mr. Hitching was 
happily engaged with a county lady who was giving 
herself county airs. Hitching could only say, in a 
patronizing way, “ Good-bye, sir, good-bye and I 
was not destined to hear him speak like himself 
again. He came to terrible grief in after years. I 
pity him now, when I think of the great blow that 
fell upon his house. 

I had an early dinner at the Wiltons’. Hy train 
was to start at four in the afternoon. But there 
was another at six in the evening, by which I could 
also travel, and reach Harbourford the next day. 
When dinner was over (they dined at two, the Wil- 
tons) I was permitted to have Esther all to myself. 
This was conceded through an appeal from Tom. 
Emmy, Priscilla, and Barbara went out to tea. Mrs. 
Wilton went up-stairs to lie down. Tom Folgate 
had undertaken to go with me to the station at four 
o’clock. Emmy took charge of the house. Esther 
and I were alone in the drawing-room. 

I little thought I was plunging into a sea of 
trouble. Hy parting from Stoneyfield on that 
misty autumn morning was not more bitter than 
this separation from Esther. Strange that it should 
be so, you say. I hated Stoneyfield ; I loved Lind- 
ford ; that is, I loved Esther Wilton. When I ran 
away from Stoneyfield, I felt that I ought to have 
loved that place ; that I ought to have been happy 
in it; that I had been treated harshly: and yet 


ANOTHEE PAETING. 


169 


when I saw it slipping away, stone by stone, brick 
by brick, house by house, I wept, and said “ Good- 
bye” to it. And there was not more pain in my 
heart than there was now, even with Esther Wil- 
ton’s head upon my shoulder ; for did I not feel her 
hot tears upon my hand, and how could I tell what 
other causes might bring them into her eyes when I 
was far away, and there was no one left to comfort 
her? And was I not poor, and friendless, and 
homeless, a waif as it were on the great waves of 
the stormy world ? I had only five pounds in my 
pocket, and two of those would go in railway fares. 
It might be years and years before I could amass 
two hundred pounds. Oh, if I could have taken 
Esther with me ! 

‘‘ ’Tis a question left us yet to prove, whether love 
leads fortune, or else fortune love.” What infiuence 
the one or the other had on my career, the sequel 
will show. Love is an all-engrossing passion, and 
affects different minds in a different manner. Esther 
could only cling and hope, and say sweet, tender 
things, and nestle to my side. I was full of valiant 
vows, full of the protector, the champion, desiring 
to cherish and comfort and console. But how bitter 
the thought that I, with all my love, could not even 
give my darling a little cottage like one of those 
working-men’s cottages by the river, whilst that fel- 
low, Howard, could have conducted her in state to 
a palace ! 

How these contending thoughts tore my heart in 
8 


170 


CHRISTOPHER KENRICK. 


those days, it boots not now to say. Tom Folgate 
sent a message that if I did not come in ten minutes 
I should lose the train. I replied that I had made 
up my mind not to go until six, but my luggage 
might be sent on. Esther looked all sunshine at 
this. I waved my hand defiantly at the ticking 
clock pointing fiercely to four ; but the little monster 
had the better of us by and by, when I could no 
longer gainsay its peremptory marking of the time. 

It was a sad parting, somehow, despite the efforts 
of both to appear cheerful and hopeful. I left the 
house in a heavy shower of rain, that came down 
remorselessly. They were just lighting the lamps, 
and the town looked lonely and cheerless. The 
flickering lights shone upon the reeking pavements. 
The cab in which I and Tom Eolgate were seated 
smelt damp and fusty. At the railway station we 
found Fitzwalton, who insisted upon being jolly. 
The first thing he did was to square up at me in 
pugilistic fashion, and then, covering his face and 
looking terribly frightened, cry out, “I give in.” 
He said as I had not been up to Bromfield Hoad, 
he had come down here (Tom Folgate having let 
him know by what train I started), to say good-bye 
for self, and wife, and sister, and to wish me all 
kinds of good wishes. 

This was very kind of Fitzwalton, I thought ; and 
I shook his hand warmly. I felt very much de- 
pressed, nevertheless. Tom Folgate, instead of try- 
ing to lighten our parting, was as doleful, and heavy, 


ANOTHEE PAETING. 


171 


and lugubrious in his remarks as he possibly could 
be. The rain splashed upon the railway track as 
we stood talking on the platform. A few oil-coated 
and wet passengers jostled us now and then, and at 
length I found myself watching the retreating forms 
of Tom and Fitzwalton, amidst a jumble of porters 
and luggage and steam. Then in a few minutes the 
city and its many flickering lights slipped away too, 
and I was blundering onward in the autumn dark- 
ness, that typifled, alas ! my own prospects, and the 
future that was just breaking in upon several per- 
sons that flgure prominently in this history. 



172 


CHEISTOPHER KENEICK. 


CHAPTEE XVII. 

A BUNDLE OF LETTEES. 

Tuening over sundry papers relating to this early 
period of my life, I come across some original let- 
ters, and copies of letters, which will tell the story 
of my engagement at Harbourford perhaps better 
than I could narrate it. It is a faded-looking bundle, 
which I untie and examine. A crumpled rose falls 
upon the floor in a httle cluster of leaves that still 
give forth a sweet perfume, the perfume of a long 
past summer, bringing back vivid memories of a 
strange, wayward life. 

The following selections from these epistolary 
treasures will be sufficient to introduce the reader to 
the new phase in my life and adventures which that 
parting at Lindford inaugurated : 

Cheistophee Keneick to Tom Folgate. 

Harbourford ^ October 18 — . 

My Deae Tom — It is quite certain that I have 
made a mistake in coming to this town. The Har- 
hourford Messenger office is a very extraordinary 
place. You enter it up a narrow court. The flrst 
room you come to is the editor’s room ; and it is my 
room also. I have to sit in presence of a deaf, 


A BUNDLE OF LETTERS. 


173 


gouty, old gentleman, who occupies his time between 
a pair of scissors and a paste-pot, except when he 
is instructing me in what manner to report this or 
that speaker. Mr. Carnaby Muddle, the proprietor, 
is a retired shoemaker, who tests the value of my 
work in the Messenger with a yard measure. Yes, 
dear Tom, he measures it, and if my reports and 
paragraphs are shorter than those of the opposition 
journal, the Filot, Mr. Muddle complains to the ed- 
itor, who rebukes Christopher Kenrick. 

To your somewhat critical mind, my friend, the 
attempt at a leading article, occasionally, must seem 
melancholy, especially after the work of that much 
maligned but able writer, Mr. Noel Stanton. The 
press is debased, and journalism rendered ridiculous 
by the Harhourford Messenger ; and you must not 
be surprised if you hear that I have left the place. 
You will give me credit, I am sure, for sincerity in 
my views about the high mission of the press. You 
cannot imagine to what base uses we of the Messen- 
ger are compelled to apply our talents. You would 
be sorry to see me sitting in a wretched little room 
(I verily believe it covers some foul sewer), with no 
furniture but a table and two chairs. It is entered 
by two doors, and one leads up a long, dark stair- 
case to the printer’s rooms, which are filled with a 
combined odor of printer’s ink, tobacco-smoke, and 
a nameless smell that attaches to all unswept and 
unwashed rooms. Great spiders lie in wait for you 
as you ascend to this wretched region, and leave 


174 


CHEISTOPHEE KENEICK. 


traces of their mediseval webs upon your face and 
hat. Perhaps it may turn out to be good experi- 
ence my coming here ; but it requires all my philos- 
ophy to enable me to regard it in this light. If 
ever I write a novel, I will sketch the Harhourford 
Messenger. 

You are not, dear Tom, to speak of this miserable 
picture to my darling girl, who writes to me so 
cheerfully, and with such happy hope in the future. 
I am, my dear friend, always thine, 

Cheistophee Keneick 

Tom Folgate to Cheistophee Keneick. 

Lindford^ October 18 — . 

My deae Boy — What a hole ! Confound it ; send 
it to the devil. Be plucky, Kenny, and cut it. Yet 
stay ! after all, one hole is as good as another. 
Lindford, if it be cleaner and more respectable than 
Harbourford seems to be, is a disgusting hole, and 
especially now thou art no longer here. Do not be 
downhearted. I wish we could have carried that 
scheme of ours out about going to Kussia. It is on 
the cards for me to go ; but Emmy wants to make all 
sorts of conditions. 

Thy pretty little sweetheart looks as charming as 
ever. I met that Howard at Fitzwalton’s the other 
night. Miss Amelia was trying on her fascinations 
with him ; but it was no go. He is deuced rich, 
Kenny, my boy ; but I think Esther is above riches. 
Noel Stanton is going in for Miss Birt, and Fitzwal 


A BUNDLE OF LETTERS. 


175 


ton will be glad to get her off bis hands. Old Mitch- 
ing is as big a fool as ever, and his wife as pretty 
and piquant, and delightful as — well, as what, as 
whom? — as Mrs. Mitching. If Emmy only joined 
to her good sense and spirit the liveliness and amia- 
bility of Mrs. M., what a jewel she would be ! 

Write to me soon ; and if you want me to come over 
and punch old Muddle’s head, you have only to say 
the word, and I will be with you, and assault him a 
la Chrissy Kenrick. — I am your affectionate 

Tom Folgate. 

Esther Wilton to Christopher Kenrick. 

Lindford ^ October IStli, 18 — . 

My dear Kenny — Oh how delicious it is to have 
your kind, good, clever letters ! You cannot think 
what sunshine they bring with them. I watch the 
postman through the blind every morning, and when 
he does not stop, I nearly cry ; but when he does, 
oh ! you should see my face, and see how cheerfully 
I go about all day. 

I read the paper, and your dear, learned article 
about the state of the docks. If I did not under- 
stand it all, — as how should I who am so ignorant ? — 
I could easily see that it was clever and wise, as 
everything you do is. How you must study, my 
dear ! Do be careful, and not work too hard. 

It must be delightful to paint, and I am glad you 
are studying that. If you could only have seen Old 


176 


CHRISTOPHEK KENRICK. 


Monk’s Chapel yesterday, there was a picture to 
paint, dear Kenny. I went there to think about you, 
and the leaves were all falling. Sometimes I go 
into the cathedral, and walk about the aisle where 
we walked together one Saturday afternoon ; do you 
remember, dear, when you told me all about how 
you ran away from home, and was poor, and made 
me cry, but only that you might kiss my tears away, 
and call me your dear, silly, little girl, which I am, 
dear, dear Kenny ? 

Emmy seems very miserable, and I cannot under- 
stand why, when she sees Mr. Eolgate every day, 
nearly. Oh, if we saw each other every day ! Next 
to that, comes your dear letters, which I look for so 
anxiously. 

Excuse all mistakes, and let my true love atone 
for the silly letters of — Yours always, and forever, 

Esther. 

I pass over some intermediate communications, 
and come to a terrible little packet that gives me a 
thrill of pain even now. At the end of October, 
Miss Julia Belmont was announced to play Bosalind 
at a neighboring theatre, fourteen miles from Har- 
bourford. I was very miserable at the time, having 
given notice to leave the Messenger , and failed in ob- 
taining some other employment which I sought. In 
desperation I started off to see Miss Belmont. She 
received me most kindly, and I went to the theatre 
at night. She played with more than her accus- 


A BUNDLE OF LETTERS. 


177 


tomed fire. I was delighted with this cliauge from 
Harbourford. Lodging at Harbourford with a per- 
son connected with the theatre, I had been cultiva- 
ting my taste for the drama ; and this visit to Julia 
Belmont seemed to attract me to the stage. I wrote 
a long and enthusiastic letter to Tom Folgate, telhng 
him of my excursion ; and describing in glowing 
terms the pleasant day I had spent with Julia Bel- 
mont. I also mentioned, though with much less 
enthusiasm, my excursion in a letter to Esther. 
The result of this indiscretion, if it was an indiscre- 
tion, will be best shown in the following correspond- 
ence. 


Emma Wilton to Christopher Kenrick. 

Lindford, November 1st, 18 — . 

Sir — Mr. Tom Folgate has read your letter to me, 
and I have felt bound, as a sisterly duty, to read it 
to Esther, in order that she might see your character 
in its true light, and judge how wise or otherwise she 
has been in giving up a wealthy suitor who loves 
her, for one who is a common flirt, and who has not 
even a respectable profession to back up his preten- 
sions. Your conduct, sir, in visiting an actress, with 
whom it was shrewdly suspected you were on too 
intimate terms at Lindford, quite fulfils my estimate 
of you, though, I confess, I was willing to believe 
better of you, and had made up my mind to offer no 
obstruction to your engagement with my sister. 

8 * 


178 


CHRISTOPHEE KENRICK. 


You have now, sir, forfeited all the little good 
opinion I had of you ; and, by my advice, the sanc- 
tion of my mother, and with the approval of Mr. Tom 
Folgate, my sister Esther returns all your letters, 
and congratulates herself upon the escape she has 
had out of the hands of a villain. Yes, sir, I use a 
strong term ; but not stronger than that warm lan- 
guage in which you painted 3"our happy day with Miss 

, I forget her name, the actress who played at 

Lindford ; and no wonder you stayed and supped 
with her, as you had done once before at Lindford. 

It would seem you are a fool as well as a knave, 
or you vrould never put your treachery upon paper 
for others to read. Farewell ; and when you marry 
that player lady, I may, perhaps, patronize you at 
your benefit. You will, no doubt, call if you should 
come to perform at Lindford, and ask us to take 
tickets. Meanwhile, we will have no more of your 
acting love off the stage. — Your very obedient ser- 
vant, 

Emma Wilton. 

Tom Eolgate to Christopher Kenrick. 

Dear Kenny — There is the devil to pay. You 
had better write a very penitent letter, or else that 
fellow Howard will outbid you. Confound that girl ! 
I know I had no business to let her have the letter. 
What, in heaven’s name, did you write it for ? You 
did wrong, Kenny, — there is no doubt about that, — 


A BUNDLE OF LETTERS. 


179 


in renewing your acquaintance with Miss Belmont, 
and being so very happy. But you did worse in 
bragging of it. However, write a most penitent 
letter to Esther, and, I dare say, affairs can be put 
right. — Ever yours, 

Tom. 

The same post brought a heavy packet of my 
letters, directed in Esther’s handwriting. Inside the 
envelope were these words — “ Cruel, cruel Kenrick.” 
Outside the envelope, in pencil, I afterward traced, 
‘‘ They made me do it — I do love you,” in the same 
familiar hand. 

I wrote off immediately an affectionate but manly 
protest to Esther, and sent her back the letters. My 
love for her, I said, demanded trust and confidence, 
equal to all that faith which I had in her own truth 
and goodness. I rebuked her gently with her haste 
to condeiiin me. I reminded her of our happy 
hours, and conjured her by the great and undying 
love I bore her, to believe in me. 

I learnt in after-years that there was another who 
watched for letters besides Esther, and that this one 
never reached its destination. Emmy Wilton got it 
and put it into the fire. I waited post after post for 
a reply from Esther, and one morning there came a 
repetition of that other hastily- written scrap ; but it 
came too late — too late ! The wretched character of 
my engagement at Harbourford, and the loss of that 
through my pride and ambition, which could not 


180 


CHRISTOPHER KENRICK. 


stoop to the menial offices of a venal newspaper, 
this terrible blow from Lindford, which almost broke 
my heart, together with the low state of my finances, 
so preyed upon me, that I fell into a serious illness, 
and lay in a miserable state of unconsciousness for 
many days. That hurried scrap, “ They made me 
do it — I do love you,” only caught my eye weeks 
after it was received, and then I replied, “ Believe in 
me, and we shall yet realize those happy dreams of 
Lindford.” But no reply came. Those dear hopes, 
which had filled my soul with such pleasant images, 
had been too bright to last. 

Disraeli the elder relates in his Miscellany how 
love has been regarded, not merely as a passion of 
the soul, but also a disease of the body, like the fever. 
Huet argued that it was frequently in the blood, and 
might be treated and cured as methodically as any 
other disorder. The great Conde having felt a vio- 
lent passion for Mademoiselle de Vigeau, was con- 
strained to join the army. His love lasted all 
through the campaign, when he fell into a serious 
illness. Upon recovering his health, his passion was 
gone. Blood-letting was, indeed, recommended as 
a cure for love, and the efficacy of this system was 
illustrated by the story of a German who was des- 
perately in love with a German princess. She was 
not insensible to a reciprocal passion, and in order 
that he might be near her person she created him 
a general. Eventually, the princess proved fickle, 
and gave the general his conge. He found, however, 


A BUNDLE OP LETTEES. 


181 


that it was impossible to live out of her presence, so 
one day he intercepted her, and threw himself at her 
feet. She commanded him to quit her presence, 
which he refused to do. He was ready to obey 
every order but that, even if she commanded his 
death, saying which, to enforce his eloquent appeal 
with a splendid attitude, worthy of the melo-dramatic 
stage, he drew his sword and presented it to the prin- 
cess. Interpreting his rhetorical flourishes literally, 
she took the blade and ran him through the body. 
Fortunately, saith the chronicler, he was healed of 
his wound at the end of three months, and likewise 
of his passion, which had flowed away with the 
effusion of blood. 

The logic of the conclusion is somewhat question- 
able. I was reminded of the story by my own 
feelings at awakening, as it were, out of this iUness. 

and by I will describe to you my lodgings, 
and the most quaint and poor, but estimable, people 
amongst whom I had sojourned in this far-away sea- 
port of Harbourford. 

In the mean time let me put my case as a contrary 
illustration to the theory of love being a disease of 
the body as well as of the mind. 

Of course it is nonsense, this theory, at the com- 
mencement, and I am not treating it as a serious 
matter, for there is a fine bit of satire in that story 
of the German princess. You do, nevertheless, come 
out of a severe illness with passion toned down and 
hopes softened, with friendships somewhat clouded. 


182 


CHEISTOPHER KENKICK. 


with aspirations weakened, with a clearer knowledge 
of the vanity of human wishes. 

It seemed to me, sitting up in bed with that patch- 
work counterpane round my shoulders, and looking at 
the pale light on the snow, that I had had a strange 
dream. I knew it was more than a dream. I knew 
that Stoneyfield was a reality. I remembered my 
tears on that misty autumn morning years ago. I 
felt a thrill of happy remembrance of Lindford, and 
I knew that those hours of bliss with Esther Wilton 
in these green meadows by the river were real : but 
they were misty now, these things. They did not 
come up fresh and sharp in the memory. My mind 
seemed to stretch out its arms to them, and reach 
them not. They were shadowy and dim, yet I could 
see them and feel them, though they would not be 
fully realized. Yet my love for Esther Wilton, — 
there it was in my heart, a real passion still, a 
burning thought, a trembling hope. The lamp was 
burning; it only required the smallest encourage- 
ment to blaze up and illuminate the void there was 
about it. But I dared not trim the lamp. My heart 
told me it were best to let it slumber there, with a 
remote chance that some day it might smoulder out, 
which were better than if it blazed up to light the 
way to another’s happiness. 

Perhaps my love for Esther had seemed a sweeter 
thing than it really was. My loneliness and friend- 
lessness might have given a factitious importance to 
it. It was so rare for any one to take an interest in 


A BUNDLE OF LETTERS. 


183 


me at that time. May this not have deceived me ? 
I tried to argue my love away after this fashion ; 
and then went to sleep with Esther’s last dear letter 
wet with my tears ; for I was so weak and forlorn 
here in this strange Harbourford, that the least thing 
would upset me. A tender poem, a gentle word, a 
sad story in a newspaper, would make me weep like 
a school-girl. This wore off, however, as I regained 
my strength. It was, nevertheless, a long time 
before I stood up fairly and boldly again to confront 
the world with the vigor and determination of a 
conqueror. 



CHAPTEE XYIII. 


A CHAPTEK BY THE WAY, IN WHICH INCIDENT TAKES 
THE PLACE OF CBITICISM. 

If it Pad occurred to me that a story of love and 
disappointment would crop up, in my own household, 
during the course of my narration of these other ad- 
ventures, I should not have been persuaded to intro- 
duce extra chapters by the way. “ Our fate, hid 
within an auger-hole, may rush and seize us.” 

It is “ so with us.” I sit down to write my own 
life. I am induced by my family to insert within 
the current narrative, like leaves in a dessert dish of 
apples, these wayside chapters. Fate steps in and 
decrees that there shall be a story here, too, a sad 
love tale, and I have no choice but compliance. 
Whilst I have been poring over the history of my 
own early days, a little romance has been going on 
in my own family ; and the chmax has come just at 
that particular time when the reader’s thoughts 
should be concentrated upon my own adventures. 

The reader, I fear, will plume himself upon his 
discernment. He will have felt certain that the Eev. 
Paul Felton was not an honest, good man. When 
I turn back to that chapter on etiquette, I can now 
see that I depict more of the sneak than the 
saint. There is almost an apology for him in my 


A CHAPTEE BY THE WAY. 


185 


own remarks ; and tlie doubts of my eldest daughter 
will have satisfied the reader that the Kev. Paul 
Felton’s character is not of that pure and religious 
cast wFich we had all tried to hope and believe it 
was. 

It is the opening of the new year — not New-Year’s 
Day, not New-Year’s Eve. The threshold has been 
crossed. We crossed it in tears and in anger. We 
are now in the portal. The cause of our passion 
will be found in the conversation that follows. 

“ It is an infernal insult ; and I’ll be hanged but 
I’ll kick the fellow before his flock,” says my son 
Tom, clanking his spurs on the library carpet. 

‘‘ That is nonsense, Tom. You must not strike a 
clergyman,” I say, quietly. 

“ Then I’ll pull his nose — I will, by heavens !” 

“ Tom is sure to keep his word, father,” says Bess, 
casting encouraging glances at her brother. 

‘‘ Just as you had secured his promotion, too,” 
Mrs. Kenrick says. 

“And to make his very success an excuse for jilt- 
ing the girl,” exclaims Tom. “ He ‘ thinks the fact 
of his being called to a higher sphere of labor the 
condition of parties is changed,’ does he? — the 
beast !” 

“ Tom, Tom, it is hardly worth while to exhibit so 
much excitement here,” I say. “ I wish the fellow 
were a layman, for all our sakes.” 

“ By the Lord, I’m glad he is not,” Tom replies ; 
“ his conduct would disgrace the name of layman.” 


186 


CHRISTOPHER KENRICK. 


“ Bravo, Tom !” says Bess. If a parson is bad, 
lie’s like a bad woman, desperately wicked.” 

Comes here a twopenny-halfpenny curate, you 
secure him a valuable living, and then the girl who 
was worthy of him as a curate is not fit for the 
higher sphere : why, damn the fellow, I have not 
common patience to think there is such a disgust- 
ing sneak unhung,” roars out my son, beating his 
trousers with his riding- whip until the dust surrounds 
him like the smoke of battle. 

“Tom, do not let us have this barrack-room 
language before your mother and sister,” I say. 

“ All right, sir. I’ll say no more ; but there is no 
cloth ever spun by human hands that shall protect 
Paul Felton from a tweaked nose.” 

With this remark Tom strides out of the room, 
and in a few minutes afterward we all watch him 
galloping across the country on his favorite mare. 
What a fine fellow the rogue is ! If this Felton were 
a layman, I should, indeed, like him to be horse- 
whipped by Tom Kenrick. 

“ Where is Cissy ?” I inquired by and by. 

“ In her room,” says Mrs. Kenrick. 

“ Does she take it much to heart ?” I ask. 

“ She does,” says Mrs. Kenrick. “ She not only 
loved this man, but all the villagers have prepared 
for the wedding.” 

“ How she could have liked this fellow is a mys- 
tery to me,” says Bess. 

“She did, and does,” says Mrs. Kenrick. 


A CHAPTER BY THE WAY. 


187 


Wliat, now ?” exclaims Bess. 

“ Yes, now,” says Mrs. Kenrick. 

“Has she no pride?” asks Bess, quickly, her 
eyes flashing with anger. 

“ None,” replies Mrs. Kenrick, mildly. “ She 
would sue to him even now.” 

“ Great heavens !” says Bess, solemnly. “ Then 
this thing you call love is a mystery indeed.” 

I do not feel inclined to lead Bess into a meta- 
physical discussion of that said mystery ; so I 
merely raise my eyes, as much as to say, “ Indeed 
it is, Bess.” 

“ What is to be done ?” says Mrs. Kenrick, who 
has a very practical notion of settling all difficulties 
in some way. 

“ You must try and make Cissy understand that 
she has narrowly escaped from being married to a 
villain, and — ” 

“ I thought you knew human nature better than 
that, Christopher,” says Mrs. Kenrick, interrupting 
me. “You gentlemen who write novels, and pro- 
fess to be so deeply versed in the human heart, have 
strange notions, it would seem, when the real story, 
the real pang, the true heart-break, comes before 
you. Cissy is a true woman. She loved this man 
with all her heart, and she believes that his decision 
is right. She gives him credit for nothing but a 
true, pure, good purpose in breaking off the engage- 
ment. Her only difficulty is to find resignation 
under the blow. Tell her Paul Felton is a villain — 


188 


CHRISTOPHER KENRICK. 


as we know him to be — and she will despise your 
judgment ; persist in it, and she will despise you.” 

Mrs. Kenrick’s fire and eloquence amazed me. 
As I watched her glowing cheek, and listened to 
her sweet voice, ringing like a bell with unaccus- 
tomed vigor, I felt a rush of the old love in my 
heart : I remembered how she had clung to that 
poor, desolate boy, in dark and dreary days long 
ago. If I had turned out to be a Paul Felton, she 
would have mourned me for the memory of her own 
pure image of me. 

I kiss my wife tenderly on the forehead. 

“ You are a good woman,” I say. “ What shall 
we do — go abroad ?” 

‘‘Perhaps a little change would be advisable,” 
she says. And then, squeezing my hand, she leaves 
the room in tears, Bess following her with a puz- 
zled, sympathetic air, like one who pities for pity’s 
sake, but does not understand that there is great 
cause for grief. 

There is nothing like a long, quick walk in the 
country when you are troubled. When that great 
writer, whom you all know, saw that separation from 
his wife was really to be part of his marvellous 
history, he walked twenty miles without resting. 

I will go and see my friend. Father Ellis, and 
then write my next chapters of Kenrick with what 
grace I may. The mind has many moods. The 
strong-willed can change it how he listeth. From 
present woes to past trials and sorrows, is, perhaps. 


A CHAPTER BY THE WAY. 


189 


no very difficult task. We shall see. I have written 
down chapter XIX. before I start. It pleased 
Thackeray to have the commencement of a new 
chapter, or a new work, always begun. This helps 
a vigorous, determined mind; but it aJffects the 
slothful in a different way. I knew an author who 
never got beyond a title-page. He had several 
books in his mind, the title-pages of three ready 
written, and one actually in print. Beyond this he 
never advanced. He looked too far into the future. 
He christened his ship and began to make her sails 
before the vessel was built. My poor Cissy has 
thought about the style of her wedding-dress, and 
lo and behold, there is no bridegroom ! 



CHAPTEE XIX. 


MY LODGINGS AT HAEBOUEFOKD. 

An old-fasliioned, gabled house over an archway, 
in a back street that led to some miserable tene- 
ments ; an old-fashioned, gabled house that had 
once been part of an ancient chapel. This was Abel 
Crockford’s residence. You entered it by a dark 
staircase beneath the archway, and when you reached 
the end of the staircase you came into an up-stairs 
kitchen, a painter’s studio, and three bedrooms. 
The kitchen was part of an old room that had once 
been somewhat pretentious, and there was still left 
a fireplace of an ancient date and a picturesque 
style. There was an air of poverty in the room, but 
it was cleanly. The rough, patched stone walls were 
adorned with rough, sketchy, ill-framed pictures in 
oil. A few plants looked green at all seasons in the 
patched mullioned window, and Mrs. Crockford was 
a neat, dapper little woman, who was always trying 
to make the place seem cheerful. By the old- 
fashioned chimney-piece there was an arm-chair, 
which had been made up out of a throne. Yes, sir, 
a throne that had done duty for kings and queens at 
the old Harbourford Theatre Eoyal before that 
establishment was burnt down and rebuilt ; and this 
throne had been amongst the few things rescued 


MY LODGINGS AT HAIIBOURFORD. 191 

from the flames.. It had required much strengthen- 
ing with battens and nails, and much padding with 
wool, and canvas, and chintz, before it assumed that 
cozy appearance which it has in presence of the 
fire-light from that capacious old chimney. 

What is all this description about ? do you ask. 
Why am I keeping you in suspense ? I am describ- 
ing my lodgings at Harbourford, dear sir ; my nest 
during those dark days of fever and delirium, dear 
madam ; my home, when I was down and fainting by 
the way, tres cJiers amis. 

Well, out of this kitchen you reached a room 
nearly as large. There were two easels in this 
second apartment, and a fierce smell of paint ; for 
the artists who worked there ground their own 
colors, and used strong material. Abel Crockford 
was a sign-painter and scene-painter, and he wrote 
inscriptions on coffin-plates. His ambition was 
scene-painting ; his fate was signs. Now and then 
he produced bits of color which drew forth high 
commendation. He had once done a fairy glen, 
which was pronounced, at Harbourford, the per- 
fection of scenic art ; but sign-boards were Abel’s 
most successful achievements, and nobody could 
touch him for taste and expedition in coffin-plates. 
Upon the walls of his rough art-studio were hung 
various examples of Abel’s work, chiefly studies of 
trees and copies of pictures. Here and there were 
examples of letters, and sketches of pictorial sign- 
boards ; with bits of theatrical scenery, strips of 


192 


CHRISTOPHEE KENRICK. 


rock and water, patches of sky and foliage, and a 
mask or two — remnants of some grotesque extrava- 
ganza. Upon one side of the studio, however, there 
was a picture in a frame, a work of large dimensions, 
carefully covered with a curtain. Close by was a 
small table, upon which there were several old prints, 
a work on the old masters of art, a magnifying-glass 
of an ancient make, and some writing-paper. 

This concealed picture represented Abel Crock- 
ford’s dream of greatness. We have all our hopes 
of fame and wealth. This was Abel’s ; but of that 
“ anon, anon, sir,” as Francis says in the play. 

From this temple of the graces branched off three 
bedrooms ; one in which I slept, another set apart 
for Abel and his wife, and a third which was in too 
ruinous a condition for occupation. The property 
belonged to the Corporation of Harbourford, and it 
was let on a repairing lease at a nominal rent. 
Abel Crockford had succeeded in keeping the other 
part of the house whole, but this third chamber 
defied all his efforts, and so he permitted it to 
become picturesque, as he said, and fit for the re- 
searches of learned antiquarians, who came now and 
then from distant parts to see the old archway and 
its tumble-down house overhead. 

I could not complain of my room, even if I had 
been able to pay my rent regularly ; it was always 
clean, it was always sweet, it was always natty. 
There was no carpet on the floor, except just round 
the little bed. My looking-glass hung on the wall. 


MY LODGINGS AT HARBOURFORD. 


193 


and there was a curtain round it to set it off. My 
dressing-table was made out of an old tea-chest, but 
then it was decorated with white and pink dimity. 
I had a real washstand, flanked with a bit of real oil- 
cloth. There was an oak chest of drawers in the 
room, with a score or more books of my own upon 
the top, besides sundry magazines, an old Shak- 
speare, and a “ Whole Duty of Man,” upon some 
hanging shelves. Several of Abel’s rough sketches 
were exhibited on the walls. The window was an 
old stone design, with a stone seat in a deep recess, 
like the look-out of an old Elizabethan house. I sat 
here often between Mrs. Crockford’s chintz curtains, 
and watched the children at play up the court be- 
yond. I sometimes envied them, even despite their 
rags and dirt. Now and then their merry games 
were rudely arrested by some drunken drab beating 
her offspring, and then my heart would bleed for all 
poor and unhappy children. 

Pity it was Abel Crockford had no little ones. 
He was a noble, honest-hearted fellow, and his wife 
believed in him above all men. Yet Abel was poor 
and ignorant, and his wife could neither read nor 
write. Abel’s ignorance, however, was not of a 
dense character. He had great intelligence, and, 
with education, would have made a great man. An 
eye for the beautiful in nature and in art, he appre- 
ciated a good book, a happy thought, a bright stroke 
of imagination, and a rare piece of music. From 
sign-painting he had risen to a fair position, as 
9 


194 


CHRISTOPHER KENRICK. 


assistant scenic artist at tlie Harbourford Theatre, 
and there were many rough little studies upon his 
walls that were creditable works. 

The dream of his life latterly had been to get 
money enough to buy the queer old house in which 
he lived ; and this hope had been fostered by the 
purchase of a somewhat remarkable picture, which 
Abel firmly believed would one day be sold for many 
thousands of pounds. 

This was how he told me the history of that picture : 

“ I bought him, sir. Mister Kenrick, the time as 
you was took ill, just after you come here to lodge. 
I see him in a winder, for sale ; and says I to 
myself, that’s a work of art ; not as you could 
see him, sir. Mister Kenrick, because you couldn’t, 
for he was black with the dust and varnish of ages. 
I knowed the man as had him, so I says, ‘ What for 
the picter?’ and he says, ‘I ain’t going to sell him 
until the Catholic priest has seen him — he’s a judge.’ 
‘ Where did you get the picter?’ says I. ‘He was 
bought at the dean’s sale, when nobody was a 
lookin’,’ says he. ‘ What’s the price ?’ says I. ‘ I 
wants ten pound for him,’ says he ; ‘ but maybe I 
shall want more when the priest has seen him.’ ” 

Whilst Abel is telling his story, Mrs. Crockford 
looks up from her stocking mending, and smiles 
approvingly at her lord, who is standing by the fire, 
pointing each sentence earnestly with his pipe. 

“Well, I comes home, and I says to my missus — - 
didn’t I, dame — ” 


MY LODGINGS AT HAEBOUEFORD. 


195 


‘‘Yes, Abel, you did.” 

“ I says, ‘ Missus, there’s a fortun’ in that picter. 
I knowed the dean’s brother ; he was a great trav- 
eller, and was in the wars ; he captured that picter,’ 
I says, ‘ in some palace, and it’s the work of a great 
master. If I can raise the money,’ says I, ‘that 
picter’s mine.’ ‘ You knows best,’ was all my missus 
says. I knowed a working man once as bought a 
picter at a sale, and he sends him to be cleaned and 
done up, and the man as done him up, says he, 
‘ I’ll give you ten pounds for him,’ sir, Mr. Kenrick, 
and the man wouldn’t, and from that the picter got 
wind, and at last he were sold for ten thousand 
pounds. Yes, sir. Mister Kenrick.” 

Abel was quite overcome at the thought of that 
worthy man’s good fortune. He refilled his pipe, 
and Mrs. Crockford laid down her stocking to hear 
Abel tell the story all over again. 

“I goes to the shop again, and as luck would 
have it, sir, Mr. Kenrick, the priest was there, an’ 
he says to the man, says he, ‘I do not think any- 
thing of this picture ; sell it for several pounds and 
have done with it.’ Says I, ‘ Well, I’m a poor man, 
but I can do the frame up a bit,’ says I, ‘ and clean 
him, and make a trifle out of him ; he’s in a shock- 
ing bad state, and I’ll give you five pounds for him,’ 
says I, Mister Kenrick, sir. ‘ Take the money, my 
man,’ says the priest ; and so he did, and I gives 
him every penny as we’d saved for a rainy day, — 
did I not, missus ?” 


196 


CHRISTOPHER KENRICK. 


You did, Abel,” says Mrs. Crockford. 

“Well, sir. Mister Kenrick, I brings him borne, 
and I was dreadful sorry you was ill, and I couldn’t 
have your advice. When I brought him home, there 
was only one figure, or part of one to be seen ; that 
was a knight in armor; but there was light and 
shade in that figure. Mister Kenrick, sir, as showed 
me he was a grand picter. Well, sir. Mister Kenrick, 
I sets to at him — I sets to and washes him well to 
begin with, careful, sir, and I rubs him with a silk 
handkercher, and I notices that a great block of 
wood, or a door-step, or a coffin, or whatever some- 
thing was near this knight, began to appear like a 
man, a dead ’un ; so I perseveres and says nothing ; 
and days go on, and I rubs away to get the old 
varnish off, and I was regular unearthing a buried 
body, sir. Mister Kenrick ; and in a week I restores 
to daylight the figure of a dead soldier, at which 
the other figure was gazing. They had fought, I 
s’pose, and one had killed the other. Well, sir. 
Mister Kenrick, I sees at once he’s a grand picter ; 
and I begins to talk about him. One or two gentle- 
men comes to look at him, and I gets an offer of 
fifty pounds for him. I rigs him up then on some 
tressels, with a bit of cloth behind him and a curtain 
in the front, and the priest he comes to see him. 
He looks at him, and at last he says, ‘ I never see 
that picter until now ; that’s a different thing to the 
picter I see before ; he’s a prize, my man, he’s a 
prize.’ Then others comes in, and they talks of him 


MY LODGINGS AT HARBOURFORD. 197 

being by this man and the other, this school and 
that, and I gets a hundred offered for him. Yester- 
day I has that doubled.” 

“ I hope to goodness you will not overstep your 
market,” I say. 

“No, I’ll not do that, sir. Mister Kenrick. I know’ s 
what I’m doing ; and I’ve got a little surprise for you, 
too, sir.” 

I W’as still weak, but strong enough to think of 
W'ork. I had taken a fierce dislike to the press since 
the sudden termination of my Harbourford engage- 
ment. The equally sudden termination of my Lind- 
ford dream had settled much of that ambition and 
patience which had helped me to bear many of the ills 
connected with reporting on the Harbourford Messen- 
ger. Abel had noticed this, and my love for the drama 
had started a scheme in his mind for my benefit. 

“ I have got your violin back. Mister Kenrick, sir. 
I knew where you’d sold him, and I’ve got him back. 
Don’t be angry, sir ; I’ve not been and paid for him, 
but here he be.” 

Thereupon, Abel produced my old violin, with a 
bundle of fresh strings in a tin box, tfie instrument 
in perfect order. I could not speak ; and Abel sud- 
denly professed to have important business in his 
painting-room. A delicate, generous act like this 
from a poor man, and a comparative stranger, 
affected me very much, and my hands trembled over 
that first old bit of melody which my favorite bow 
drew from the sympathetic strings— 


198 


CHKISTOPHER KENEICK. 


“ What’s this dull world to me, 

Rohiu Adair ?” 

Simple words, delicious melody ! It is an old song 
that my mother sang to me in those few bright 
intervals of childhood when I was not being beaten 
or denounced as a good-for-nothing child that could 
not possibly come to any good. What’s this dull 
world to me?” The very sentiment was in my 
heart ; and its morbid complaining affected my 
already broken health, until Abel’s eyes were fixed 
upon me for a moment with a bright humane sparkle 
as he produced that old viohn which had been a 
solace to me in so many weary hours. 

In the evening Abel, in his hearty, ignorant way, 
said — 

“ Well, Mr. Kenrick, sir, I’ve bin and got you what 
you calls an engagement.” 

“ Indeed, Abel. What is it ?” 

‘‘ Second fiddle in the orchestra,” said Abel, look- 
ing straight at me, ‘‘if you be not too proud to do it.” 

“ Too proud, Abel !” I exclaimed. “ If I am not 
too ignorant of the work.” 

“ You can do it,” said Abel. “ I have no fear of 
that : it’s fifteen shilling a week for the season, which 
be two months ; and there be no knowing, Mr. Ken- 
rick, sir, what may turn up in the mean time.” 

It boots not to tell how I entered upon this new 
duty, and how I succeeded. The strange incidents 


MY LODGINGS AT HARBOUKFOKD. 


199 


of the work come back to me now like broken pieces 
of a colored window. I see the color, I detect bits 
of pattern, but there is no oneness anywhere amongst 
them. They are indicative of gas-light and dirty 
daylight; they reflect tawdry, tinselled garments 
and patchy scenes ; they smell of stale tobacco and 
orange-peel ; their very jingle, as I push them aside, 
brings up a blundering memory of old-world waltzes 
and quadrilles, and of bits of tragic accompaniments 
done in a vigorous tremolosoj though “ Kobin Adair” 
puts in one bar to give a touch of pathos to the 
jumble of strange sounds. 

I sat for several weeks in that little orchestra of 
the Harbourford Theatre, a pale, thin, ghost-like 
young man ; and I played second fiddle to the full 
satisfaction of the management. Once, in theatrical 
parlance, the ghost did not walk, or, in more general 
language, the management could pay no salaries. 
But the arrival of two Yankee ships in port redeemed 
the fortunes of the theatre, and the company were 
suddenly so much in funds that several gentlemen 
rushed into the extravagance of new neck-ties ; whilst 
the ladies indulged in new bonnets and a Sunday 
trip to Potty Island, with shrimps and tea? 

My time was fully occupied at this period ; and I 
attribute my sanity to the healthy stimulus of occu- 
pation. I rose at an early hour, and commenced 
the day in Abel’s studio. With the aid of an 
elementary work on oil-painting and Abel’s ex- 
perience I succeeded in producing several copies of 


200 


CHRISTOPHER KENRICK. 


borrowed pictures, which a broker purchased for a 
few shillings each. I followed this success up bj 
one or two efforts at original work, and I remember 
me of a triumph of trees and water, which Abel sold 
to a patron for ten shillings and sixpence. When I 
was not called to rehearsal in a morning, I stood at 
my easel until it was time for the evening perform- 
ance. I look back now to the almost unexpected 
effects of color in that poor scene-painter’s studio, 
and feel all those early sensations of reawakened 
ambition as keenly as if I had not lived to gray hairs 
and family responsibilities. 

At odd times I sat down and tried my hand at 
essays for newspapers and magazines — wayside sto- 
ries, incidents of life, and other fugitive papers. I 
posted them with trembling hands to London edit- 
ors, and looked up their periodicals at the local 
libraries, but those magical initials “ C. K.” did not 
appear in print, except once in a harsh “ Notice to 
Correspondents.” Moreover, my manuscripts were 
rarely returned, though I treasure to this day the 
polite letter of one editor, who was good enough to 
say there was promise in my work, though my style 
was too amateurish for the publication over whose 
fortunes he presided. 

I wrote several letters to my mother, but got no 
reply. The same fate attended my letters to Mr. 
Mitching ; and two which I wrote to Tom Folgate 
came back through the Dead Letter Office, marked 
“ Gone.” The following communication from Mr. 


MY LODGINGS AT HARBOUEFOED. 


201 


Fitzwalton was a mystery which time alone solved. 
Fitzwalton wrote as though I knew all that had 
transpired during my absence from Lindford : — 

Me. Fitzwalton to Cheistophee Keneick. 

Deae Keneick — I received your favor in due 
course, and was sorry to hear that you had been so 
very ill ; at which, however, I do not wonder, seeing 
what sad events have occurred on all hands since 
your departure from this ill-fated city. 

Everybody knew that Tom Folgate was rather 
loose, but none of us expected he would do what he 
has done. I am sure it must grieve you very much ; 
but such is life,” dear Kenrick. We all have our 
troubles. I am going to leave this place for Lon- 
don, where I have purchased a partnership. 

You will, perhaps, be surprised to learn that my 
sister-in-law. Miss Birt, is going to be married to 
3^our opponent in the famous battle, Mr. Noel Stan- 
ton, who is, after all, a very nice fellow. 

What changes a few short months bring about! 
I have not been to Stoneyfield lately, but I hear 
your father bears his loss with manly fortitude. — I 
am, yours truly, 

W. Fitzwalton. 

I pored over this epistle for hours. I wrote for 
explanations that Fitzwalton would not give. “ His 
new business occupied all his time,” he said ; and 
9 * 


202 


CHKISTOPHEE KENRICK. 


he could not believe that I did not know quite as 
much of what had passed as he did, and more 
especially as that Folgate scandal was in all the 
papers. If I really did not know all about it, 
perhaps I had better remain in blissful ignorance, 
or pay a visit to Lindford, and make personal 
inquiries on the spot.” 

This was all I could get from Fitzwalton, and I 
was so much offended at the coolness of his reply 
and its formal style, that I tied up his letters with 
another little bundle, and allowed the tide of fate 
and fortune to flow on without further inquiry or 
interruption. The last sentence of Fitzwalton’s let- 
ter, too, seemed so much like a sneer, that I was 
inclined to be very angry with the waiter on this 
account. “Your father bears his loss with manly 
fortitude !” I remembered that the very first time 
I met Fitzwalton in Lindford he sneered at my run- 
ning away from home. “ And this is friendship) !” I 
said. 

What a blessing it was, at these times, that easel 
in Abel Crockford’s painting-room ! 


CHAPTEE XX. 


IN WHICH I TELL ABEL CEOCKFOED THE STOEY OF 
VELASQUEZ. 

“ The more I paint,” I said to Abel, one morning, 
“ tlie more I understand the value of that picture.” 

“ Ah, he be a grand chap,” Abel responded, un- 
covering the work, ‘‘and I’ve this very moment 
almost hit upon a new idea about him, which I don’t 
mean to say nothing about until I’ve carried it out.” 

“ Strange, a new thought about it has occurred to 
me,” I said. 

“ Have it now ?” said Abel, dipping the end of a 
new clay pipe into a cup of coffee, which Mrs. Crock- 
ford had brought into the painter’s room, as was her 
custom every morning at seven o’clock. 

“ Do you know the story of Pareja and Velasquez, 
Abel?” 

“ I do not.” 

“ Then I’ll tell it to you whilst you are putting in 
that bit of sky.” 

“ Thank you, Mr. Kenrick, sir,” said Abel, 
standing back from his easel, and holding his 
head knowingly on one side to see the effect of 
a “ promiscuous-liko” dab of indigo and brown 
madder, 


204 


CHRISTOPHER KENRICK. 


“Pareja,” I said, “was a slave, literally kicked 
into the studio of Velasquez by a famous Spanish 
admiral, who made a present of the youth to the 
famous painter. They called the boy Pareja, after 
his master, and the painter’s pupils made a drudge 
of the woolly-headed little fellow. He was at the 
beck and call of everybody, he cleaned the palettes, 
ground the colors, and indeed was a slave in every 
respect, getting considerably more kicks than half- 
pence. His master, however, treated him kindly, 
and the slave held him in the highest admiration. 
One day Pareja — in that imitative spirit which is 
characteristic of man, whether he be bondman or 
freeman — tried to paint. Of course he made a terri- 
ble hash of the business, as I did, Abel, when first 
I took up the brush ; but the true passion was 
excited, and Pareja hied himseK to a deserted garret 
in his master’s house, and there set up an easel. 
He had nothing but old, disused brushes to work 
with, and the refuse color from the painting-room. 
Early in the mornings, and at other odd times, he 
found a wonderful charm in daubing the colors upon 
bits of board. By and by he improved, until the 
forms that he produced really gave him a positive 
delight, such as the real artist feels at his own 
success — ” 

“ Go on, sir, I be listening — I baint looking at yon 
bit of sky — I’m trying to see that slave at work in 
his garret,” said Abel, when I paused for a moment 
in my narrative. 


THE STOBY OF VELASQUEZ. 205 

“ One day King Philip the Fourth and the great 
Rubens honored Yelasquez with a visit. In the 
train of the kiug were the noblest grandees in the 
land. Following Rubens were Yandyck, Sneyders, 
Yan Norden, and other celebrated pupils of the king 
of painters. Rubens was most favorably impressed 
with the works of Yelasquez. The latter said his 
cup of happiness would be full if Signor Rubens 
would leave a stroke of his pencil upon one of his 
pictures. Presenting a palette to the great master, 
Yelasquez pointed to his chief works. ‘ All these,’ 
said Rubens, with that peculiar grace which indi- 
cates the perfect gentleman, ‘ are finished, yet will I 
make an attempt.’ At the same moment he picked 
up a piece of panel which was lying against the wall, 
in an out-of-the-way corner. Turning it round to 
see if this offered an opportunity for leaving behind 
a souvenir of his art in the studio of Yelasquez, the 
great master uttered an exclamation of surprise, as 
his eye fell upon the picture afterward so famous as 
‘ The Entombment.’ This was the work of — ” 

“ Pareja, the slave !” exclaimed Abel, his bright 
eyes blazing with excitement. “ Wonderful, wonder- 
ful !” 

‘‘ The slave had caught the inspiration of his mas- 
ter,” I continued, “ and had worked in secret, strug- 
gling with his own genius. That day opened up a 
glorious career to him. His master embraced him, 
and Pareja became famous. His attachment to his 
master was so great that he was killed at last in a 


206 


CHRISTOPHER KENRICK. 


street attack, whilst defending tlie husband of his 
master’s daughter. He died, thanking God that he 
had been permitted to lay down his life for the child 
of the great and magnanimous Yelasquez.” 

There were tears in Abel’s eyes when I had 
finished, and he sat still for several minutfes appa- 
rently looking at that bit of blue and madder ; but 
picturing in his mind the wonderful career of the 
Spanish slave. 

“ Now, Abel, I tell you this story for two reasons ; 
in the first place, that it may stimulate you and me 
to increased exertions : and, in the next place, 
because I believe your mysterious picture is either 
by Yelasquez or by his famous pupil.” 

Abel stood upright at once, and came toward his 
picture. 

“ Stay,” I said, interrupting him, “ there are such 
things as copies, and this may only be a copy ; if so, 
its intrinsic value is not, perhaps, so very great, but 
we must look up the history of the works of these 
great artists.” 

“ Mister Kenrick, sir, excuse me ; I’ll be back in 
an hour or so, and throw some more light on that ‘ 
picter. I don’t care who he’s by or whether he’s 
original. If he was by that slave, I should almost 
worship him,— in fact, I almost does now,— and I 
questions as long as I can get bread and cheese if I 
shall sell him, unless it be to get money enough. 
Mister Kenrick, sir, not to buy this house, but to pay 
some painter to let me see him at work, and give me 


THE STORY OF VELASQUEZ. 


207 


some instruction. I’ll be an artist yet, Mister Ken- 
rick, mark my words, sir ; you haven’t told me that 
story for nothing.” 

Hereupon Abel fastened his apron (he would wear 
an apron) round his waist, put on his coat, and dis- 
appeared. In less than an hour he returned. As he 
came into the housfe, I heard him say to Mrs. Crock- 
ford, “ Don’t bother about breakfast yet, dame ; we’ll 
come when we be ready.” 

His face was aglow with satisfaction. In his hand 
he held the catalogue of a sale by auction. 

“ It occurs to me, Mr. Kenrick, sir, as there would 
be some miscellaneous lots at the dean’s sale, and I 
finds out the man as bought some sundry books for 
five shilling. I goes to him, gives him half-a-crown 
for what he has left on ’em, and here’s the very 
thing ; here’s the picter, sold in London thirty years 
ago, ‘ artist unknown,’ and knocked down to the dean 
for twenty pound.” 

“ You are an ingenious, clever man, Abel,” I said. 
“ That catalogue may be of great service, and your 
discovery of it is as good as a bit of detective police 
work.” 

I’ve heard as we knows more about the value of 
picters now, nor we did thirty years agone.” 

“ Much more so, Abel, and it would not surprise 
me, if we could have a search in London, that your 
picture is worth the money at which you value 
it.” 

There be thousands in him, Mister Kenrick, sir. 


208 


CHEISTOPHER KENBICK. 


I thouglit as I’d discovered letters on liim one day. 
He’s a great picter.” 

«No donbt.” 

“ Some of the people a« come to see him goes mad 
about him. A lady, the other day, found a tear on 
the knight’s cheek. I can’t see it, but there’s wonder- 
ful sorrow in them eyes, sir.” 

“ The figure is rather stunted, Abel.” 

‘‘Well, Mr. Kenrick, sir. I’ve never heard that 
said afore; but the criticism as I hears on him 
makes me laugh sometimes, when I’m in a laughing 
humor ; otherwise I’se fit to get into a rage. One 
will say, for instance, ‘ Ah, the light and shade is 
beautiful.’ Another will say, ‘ Yes, yes, very good ; 
but defective in light and shade.’ Another will 
shake his head and say, ‘ Magnificent in color, Abel, 
but a little out of drawing.’ The next chap will say, 
‘Weak in color, but fine in drawing; perspective 
perfect.’ Then there’s others as finds out bits of de- 
tail, and goes mad over the hands ; and others as 
says the hands are ‘queer, very queer; but the 
texture of the garments wonderful.’ Some sees 
‘great softness and repose in the knight’s face,’ 
others think it ‘ decidedly hard.’ Then there’s them 
as is always sure there is more in the background, 
and advises me to have all that horrid varnish off ; 
whilst another lot says, I’ve spoiled it with cleaning 
it, and that cleaning picters is Vandalism. No two 
is alike, and now you say the leading figure is 
stunted.” 


THE STORY OF VELASQUEZ. 


209 


“ Don’t be angry, Abel.” 

“ I baint, Mister Kenrick, sir ; I be astounded.” 

“ It is only the old story over again of tbe artist 
who placed his picture in the market-place for every- 
body to put their criticism into practical effect with 
paint and brush.” 

“ And daubed it all out at last — I know, sir. They 
shan’t daub this one, I can tell’ee. Mister Kenrick, 
sir ; I’ll have a big price for him if he’s ever sold, 
and if he ain’t sold, why I shall have all the enjoy- 
ment of possession,, sir.” 

Thus we chatted on until Mrs. Crockford said 
breakfast was getting cold ; and thus w^e talked and 
painted on many another morning afterward. They 
were happy days these, to a certain extent ; but as I 
grew stronger and better, a fierce desire to know my 
real fate with regard to the girl in the lama frock 
took possession of me. And now and then, in bright 
sunny days, a whisper of ambition prompted me to 
look up out of the poor and miserable associations 
of Harbourford. The companionship of poor Abel 
(who, though he was good, w^as very ignorant), the 
reek of theatrical sawdust and orange-peel, the ever- 
lasting drone of ancient waltzes and quadrilles, and 
the garish gas and tawdry tinsel of the Harbourford 
stage, occasionally struck me as degrading. It 
seemed as if I were beginning to talk like Abel, as if 
I shuffled in my gait like that wretched prompter 
who played old men, and made the manager’s 
trousers ; it seemed as if the footlights were getting 


210 


CHRISTOPHER KENRICK. 


into my brain, and burning a bad pastile made up of 
oranges and smoke, that I tasted with my mind. 
Unless I had gone into the fields now and then, and 
lain me down by that shingly river which ran out 
into the sea, I should have gone mad. Eancy be- 
coming a melancholy mad fiddler, with your brain 
full of waltzes and orange-peel ! Fancy becoming a 
maniac with a picture by Velasquez for sale, always 
telling the story of Pareja, and nodding knowingly 
to everybody like dear old Abel ! What a friendless 
and forlorn fellow I was in these days, when the 
light of an ambitious nature began to be rekindled 
amidst those strange scenes at Harbourford ! How 
one tender line from Esther, or one kind word from 
Stoneyfield (stony-hearted, cruel, infamous Stoney- 
field !), might have raised me up ! 

Sometimes, at night, I could hear the rolling of 
the distant sea, and it pained me to think that all 
memory of Lindford, and the maiden I had left there, 
would be wiped out of that river in the Lindford 
meadows when the quiet meandering stream lost 
itself in the great waters. Where was she, this girl 
in the lama frock ? This Esther Wilton, this soft- 
eyed gentle thing? Was she really false, like the 
rest? Had she been won by gold? Did she trust 
in those words of hope that I sent to her? Would 
she wait until we met again? Would the clouds 
clear away ? Was there sunshine behind them ? Or 
only black storm and wrack, and the darkness of 
night ? I wearied myself with my vague question- 


THE STORY OF VELASQUEZ. 


211 


ings until one day in the spring, when a nearer 
approach to emancipation from doubt arrived 
through the visit of a famous actress to Harbour- 
ford. Miss Julia Belmont, of the Theatres Boyal, 
Drury Lane and Haymarket, was announced to 
appear at our local theatre for six nights only ! 



CHAPTEK XXL 


FRIENDS MEET AGAIN, AND ONE IS RICH. 

Why was I so particular in my toilet on that 
morning when I went to the first rehearsal during 
the Belmont engagement? Why did I walk with 
more elastic gait, and feel something like the sen- 
sation of newly conferred dignity? When I first 
knew that dear girl in the lama frock, I used to 
approach her presence with a sort of poetic fear, a 
dumbfounded kind of happiness. Yet here I was 
going to meet a lady of genius, one whom all Har- 
bourford would run after, and whose wit made men 
quite humble and afraid. Here was I walking down 
the street like a conqueror, with neither fear nor 
alarm, until forsooth I suddenly remembered that I 
was only second fiddle in the orchestra at fifteen 
shillings a week. This was a terrible shock to my 
pride, and more particularly when I found that Miss 
Belmont had come to rehearsal in a hackney coach. 
That seemed like a reproach to my poverty. My 
heroship fell down to zero. I was going to flash 
upon her like a meteor. Suddenly I discovered 
myself to be not even a star in her hemisphere. 
She was the queen of the tragic muse. I played 
second fiddle. She lodged at the Ptoyal Hotel and 


FllIENDS MEET AGAIN. 


213 


came to rehearsal in a carriage. I lodged up a 
court, and — 

It was a happy thought cropping up out of 
unhappy circumstances to steal into the property 
room, and borrow a wig and moustache. I did so, 
and Abel Crockford, who had come in at the mo- 
ment, lent me his spectacles. They thought me a 
little mad ; but my eccentricity was not particularly 
alarming amongst theatrical people who have license 
to do strange things. I sat in the orchestra, not a 
conqueror, not the envied of the company as I had 
promised myself, but second fiddle. 

My lady looked charming. She was rounder and 
rosier than when I saw her last. There was a touch 
of pink and white in her cheeks such as Esther 
wore. Was it false? Was it like Mrs. Mitching’s 
peach-bloom? I did not think these questions at 
the time ; but I remembered being a little surprised. 
The actresses whom I had seen at Harbourford 
came to rehearsal without any complexions. They 
put these on at night. Moreover, they usually wore 
their oldest things at rehearsal ; the theatre, they 
used to say, was “ so dirty.” But Miss Belmont 
looked as if she were dressed for the part of a 
duchess. 

The piece was one of a most romantic character, 
and the music was of importance. More than once 
I thought Miss Belmont fixed her eyes upon me, in 
a searching, inquiring manner. At these times I 
professed to look very hard at my music, though I 


214 


CHRISTOPHER KENRICK. 


could see but little through Abel Crockford’s glasses. 
I never played so badly. If the leader had not been 
my friend I should assuredly have been snubbed 
before the London star. 

There is no acting at rehearsals, as you know, at 
all events nothing like what you see at night. The 
Harbourford company were the more surprised at 
what they evidently considered much waste of power 
in Miss Belmont’s occasional display of real histri- 
onic force during rehearsal. She spoke one passage 
from the play with wonderful elocutionary effect, so 
much so that the manager applauded, and several 
members of the company followed suit ; whilst the 
lady who had hitherto played the lead cast a con- 
temptuous glance at a singing chambermaid who 
hoped some day to occupy an equally distinguished 
position. 

I felt my heart beat a little wildty at these inci- 
dents, and more wildly still at the close, when Miss 
Belmont and the manager had a short conversation 
in my hearing. 

“I had a dear friend in Harbourford,” said the 
actress. “ I first met him at Lindford ; he was on 
the press there. Some time ago he came to the 
Harbourford Messenger ^ 

“ You are quite sure of good press notices here,” 
said the manager, with an obsequious and cunning 
smile. 

“ I was not thinking of that,” said the lady. 

“ Indeed !” said the manager, curiously. 


FEIENDS MEET AGAIN. 


215 


“My friend was the son of a bookseller. They 
tell me at the Messenger he went to the bad, and 
became connected with your theatre.” 

“ Was it necessary then that he should go to the 
bad before he qualified for the stage ? I hope, Miss 
Belmont — ” 

I heard no more, but quietly slipped away be- 
neath the stage, dropped my wig and spectacles 
into Abel’s hands, bade him be mum, and disap- 
peared. 

I rushed off to my friend the shingly river. It was 
a bright spring morning. All Nature looked hope- 
ful and joyous. The river rolled along over stones 
and pebbles with a happy chirruping song. What a 
change to the garish half-gaslight, half-daylight of 
the theatre ! I walked rapidly, but not so quickly 
as my thoughts came and went. 

“This woman loves me,” I thought. “I knew 
she liked me at Lindford ; but I was not conceited 
enough to think she loved me. Besides, were not 
all my thoughts occupied with another? Esther’s 
jealousy and her sister’s denunciations of my con- 
duct, Miss Belmont’s search for me this morning, 
and her charming toilet, in a manner confirm the 
thought of the morning, that the fair actress would 
accept my hand if I offered it. She is rich, they 
say, and will retire from the stage ere long. With 
all my industry I can earn little more than thirty 
shillings a week. I am in debt and difficulty. I 
owe Mrs. Crockford five pounds, and have not three 


216 


CHBISTOPHEE KENKICK. 


in the wide world. I could marry Julia Belmont, 
and snap my fingers at poverty.” 

These mercenary thoughts coursed through my 
brain as I walked by the Harbourford river. Pov- 
erty is a fierce demoralizer. How poor I was, how 
very poor I must have been to have reckoned up 
Miss Belmont’s love, to have discounted marriage 
in this way ! Now and then the river would stop and 
flow on at a bend, in low deep murmurs, like that old 
river in the Lindford meadows, as if it mocked me 
with the memory of those happy days when Esther 
Wilton hung upon my arm, or steered my boat 
through the rushes and the water-lilies. Early 
spring grasses and budding flowers nodded by the 
river, as if in sympathetic whisperings with its quiet 
moments ; and then my heart would sink within me, 
yearning to know if Esther Wilton was still true to 
Christopher Kenrick. The clouds raced along in 
the sky, one after another, hke bands of happy 
things, as if they said, “Onward, onward — life is 
motion ; it is only the dullards who watch and wait — 
onward, onward.” Julia Belmont seemed to beckon 
me. I heard the rustle of her silken dress and the 
music of her ringing voice. By and by the river 
would rush into a rough gorge and sing the same 
exciting song ; but ever and anon a sweet, patient 
face looked up out of the troubled ocean of my 
memory, and it seemed as if the violets reflected 
back upon me the odor of its quiet maidenly pres- 
ence. 


FKIENDS MEET AGAIN. 


217 


When I reached my lodgings, I found the Crock- 
fords in a state of great excitement. 

“ Oh, Mr. Kenrick, sir !” exclaimed Abel. “ Miss 
Julia Belmont has been here, and left her card for 
you.” 

I took the card, and in the corner was printed a 
London address. 

“ She seemed so disappointed that you were not 
at home,” said Mrs. Crockford. 

She be an out-and-out lady,” said Abel. 

“ What a splendid dress, and yet she didn’t seem 
to care a bit about it !” said Mrs. Crockford. “ She 
went all over the house, and when I said it was a 
very poor place, she said you knew her when she 
had no better lodgings.” 

“ I sold her three picters,” said Abel : ‘‘ two of 
yours, Mr. Kenrick, sir, and one of my own.” 

“ You should not have done that, Abel,” I said ; 

leave me to sell my own pictures.” 

You’ve never sold ’em afore,” said Abel, in great 
astonishment. 

“ What did she give you for them ?” 

“ That be the best on it. Mister Kenrick, sir,” said 
Abel, producing six or seven sovereigns. 

“ I thought so,” I said. 

‘‘ There be something the matter with you. Mister 
Kenrick, sir. You aren’t offended with me ?” 

“ No, Abel, my friend, I am not ; there’s my hand, 
and many thanks to you. Give me my share of the 
plunder !” 


10 


218 


CHRISTOPHEE KENRICK. 


“ Here it be, Mister Kenrick, sir — five pounds.” 

“ That is just what I owe Mrs. Crockford,” I said ; 
and I handed her the money. 

She resisted this payment, and so did Abel, until 
I said if they did not take it, I should return it to 
Miss Belmont. 

“I cannot go to the theatre to-night, Abel,” I 
said. “ I am not well. What is to be done ? If I 
play no better than I did this morning, I shall not 
be missed.” 

“ 111 try and arrange it for you,” said Abel. 

“ What is the matter ?” Mrs. Crockford asked. 

“ Nothing, nothing ; I shall be better in the morn- 
ing.” 

We sat down to dinner in our plain, homely room, 
and the Crockfords continued to talk about Miss 
Julia Belmont. The manager had told Abel that 
the actress had recently come into a fortune. It made 
me mad almost, to feel that I continued to waver 
between what seemed to be a manly faithfulness to 
Esther Wilton and a mercenary attraction toward 
Miss Belmont. 

During the afternoon I received the following 
note : 


Royal Hotel, Harhourford. 

Dear Mr. E^nrick— I have found you out. I 
know why you avoid me. You have not prospered 
in life, and I have. Were it otherwise, you would 
not have heard from me. Perhaps even now I out- 


FRIENDS MEET AGAIN. 


219 


rage the proprieties ; but you know what a contempt 
we both had for the narrow formalities of Lindford. 

I am my own mistress, and have recently been 
left a handsome annuity. I think our acquaint- 
anceship, coupled with my knowledge of your his- 
tory, and the “fellow-feeling” which it excited in 
my own heart long ago, gives me the right to ask 
for a continuation of our friendship. 

I cannot help feeling that if you were rich and 
you found me poor, you would go out of your way 
to remind me of the past, and place your treasury 
at my disposal. 

Believe me, this is no ostentation on my part ; 
the obligation is on my side. 

You are often in my thoughts. Pray come and 
see me. It has made me wretched to think that you 
should avoid me. — Yours, most truly, 

Julia Belmont. 

The letter contained a bank-note for fifty pounds. 
I would fain have kept it ; but for what ? That I 
might go and seek out Esther : that I might once 
more stand before her, not a beggar, and hear my 
fate from her own lips. And supposing she were 
all she had been. Supposing the same old love ex- 
isted. Supposing she came and nestled in my arms, 
my first love (“ whoever loved that loved not at first 
sight ?”), and repeated those words which I had dis- 
covered on that once cruel envelope. Why, then, 
not all the wealth of the Indies, as a legacy with 


220 


CHEISTOPHEK KENEICK. 


Julia Belmont, would take me from that early choice, 
the girl in the lama frock. 

Should I spend Julia Belmont’s money to fly to 
my early love ? I flung the note aside at the thought 
of such an outrage. And, supposing I discovered 
Esther Wilton to be false. Supposing she were no 
better than Tom Folgate’s notion of woman. Sup- 
posing that fellow Howard had really won her with 
his gold. Supposing I found her married. Would 
this bring me back to Julia Belmont? Should I 
not curse the gold that had helped me to such a dis- 
covery? 

And could I marry Julia Belmont under any cir- 
cumstances? An actress, who had languished in 
the arms of Claude Melnottes and Othellos, who had 
been kissed by Romeos and hosts of dramatic lovers. 
Could I take this second-hand beauty to my heart, 
having flrst been won by modest looks, trusting eyes, 
unsophisticated words, and real passion ? I know 
now that I was unjust to Miss Belmont ; but I was 
young and romantic still, despite that fever and the 
humble surroundings of my fallen fortunes. In ma- 
turer years, not even in thought should I have ar- 
raigned the professional position of Miss Belmont ; 
but I could not help picturing the shrewd, clever 
actress and woman of the world, who would take care 
of me and give me money, against the dear little 
country girl, whom I should love and protect. “But 
she will retire from the stage,” said my more merce- 
nary feelings, “ and the idea of a beggar like you 


FRIENDS MEET AGAIN. 


221 


quarrelling with fortune — the idea of you daring for 
a moment to hesitate about marrying a beautiful 
woman who loves you, and is rich and accomplished ! 
Perhaps she would not have you after all; it may 
be your own conceit, this fancy of yours.” 

I was goaded to death with contending doubts and 
fears. There was one thing about which I really did 
make up my mind. I would fiddle no more in the 
Harbourford orchestra. Julia Beimont should not 
see me in that position, at all events. Here I was 
wrong, no doubt. The manly thing would have been 
to continue in my course of labor, so long as it was 
honorable ; and there was really nothing degrading, 
after all, in playing the fiddle in an orchestra. 
Many a good man has risen in the profession of 
music from humbler service. Besides, what should I 
have done without it ? Bemained a pensioner upon 
the bounty of poor Abel Crockford ? No ; I should 
not have done that. I was weak and ill and poor 
when I consented to receive Abel’s aid. When I 
grew stronger, I oftentimes felt like some unhappy 
prince who had been kicked out of his dominions, 
and longed to be free of this forced state of lowli- 
ness. It was the proud blood of some of those long- 
dead Kenricks exciting in my veins the tamer fluid 
of tamer alliances. There was a time when the 
Kenricks figured at courts, when the men led armies 
and the women dazzled emperors. If it had not 
been for a drop of that old blue blood being still left 
in the family, I might have been living at Harbour- 


222 


CHEISTOPHEK KENBICK. 


ford now, perchance playing second fiddle in the or- 
chestra. 

In the evening I wrote a letter to Miss Julia Bel- 
mont, and returned the fifty pounds with as much 
gracefulness as the circumstances would permit of. 
I told her I hoped we should meet again some day ; 
she under no less happy stars, myself with a brighter 
prospect before me. I assured her that I rejoiced 
in her good fortune, and counted myself happy in 
having so noble and generous a friend. If I called 
upon her, I said it would be in the morning ; if I did 
not, I hoped she would not think the worse of me, 
and that she would not set down my present conduct 
to false pride. 

I had half a mind to go and explain everything to 
her, including the result of my previous visit ; but 
even at Lindford I had felt fome unexplainable deli- 
cacy about mentioning Esther to her, and my mer- 
cenary prompter again suggested that, if my for- 
tunes grew worse, I might still change my mind, and 
wish to marry the rich actress. 

I was in a sea of doubt and difficulty. All I could 
do was to make desperate resolves to leave Harbour- 
ford on the morrow, go to Stoneyfield as the peni- 
tent runaway, or seek the advice of the Mitchings at 
Lindford. My desire to fathom the Eolgate and 
Wilton mystery, too, had almost grown into a pas- 
sion within the past few days. I did not like the 
idea that even Miss Belmont’s purchase of the pic- 
tures would help me on my journey. It was some 


FRIENDS MEET AGAIN. 


223 


satisfaction to know that I had barely touched the 
money ; and if I started on the morrow, I should, 
after paying my tailor’s bill, have but a sovereign 
and a half in my pocket. I could leave my violin* 
and other little properties with Abel until I required 
them again. 

I had a dream that night. I was married to Julia 
Belmont. We had a grand house, with statues on 
the staircase. Emmy Wilton had superintended the 
furnishing. I walked out of the drawing-room into 
Lindford Cathedral, and there in the cloisters I met 
Esther. “ They made me do it ; I do love you,” she 
said ; and my mother standing by with a white sol- 
emn face said, “ It is just like him, poor boy, he is 
always in the wrong ; but I love him too, I love him 
too.” 

And then I awoke, hot and feverish and afraid. 
It seemed as if a dead voice had spoken. I was go- 
ing to be ill again, I felt sure of it. , My previous 
attack came on something in this fashion. I drew 
the blind. It was a beautiful spring morning. The 
sun was just rising, sending streaks of silver and 
gold into that back court, where an ugly mist was 
rising from the gutters. It was like the breath of 
some fever-monster, this local exhalation ; and 
trouble was lowering my nervous energy down again 
to victim point. I would be gone. I dressed hur- 
riedly, wrote a short note for Abel, explaining that I 
had started for my father’s house at St oney field, 
where he should hear from me. 


224 


CHRISTOPHEK KENRICK. 


Out in tlie quiet streets, away into the broad high- 
way, on by the open sea, I felt hke a new being ; 
and a draught of milk with brandy in it at a way- 
side inn confirmed my new sensations. 

“ Eunning away again,” I said to myself ; and 
then I thought of that misty autumn long ago, and all 
the events that had occurred since. “ Eunning away 
from too much kindness and good fortune this time,” 
I said, and I prayed in my heart that some of this 
glorious spring sunshine and its buds and blossoms 
might really mingle with my future. 

‘‘Surely,” I said, “my winter is over, and the 
spring is at hand.” 

But it was not so. The snow fell again upon my 
poor fortunes. There was “ winter in my purse” for 
many a day. The young buds of my latent hopes 
were frost-bitten. The sun of my prosperity was 
clouded. I trudged on through the great cold world, 
nevertheless, still looking for the spring-time and the 
summer. 



CHAPTEE XXIL 


A CHAPTER BY THE WAY. 

We have been travelling for Cissy’s benefit, and 
change of scene brings back some of her wonted 
cheerfulness. It has come to Mrs. Kenrick’s knowl- 
edge that the Eev. Paul Felton is about to be 
married. The engagement has been a short one, 
but the lady has money. She is a widow, and will 
no doubt know how to take care of it. I hope my 
son and the parson may not meet. Tom might for- 
get himself. There will be little chance, however, 
of an encounter ; for vTom has at last settled upon 
his regiment, and is to go to India. 

This northern air is good for intellectual work, 
and physical labor too, for that matter. We are 
staying in Edinburgh for a few weeks. The season 
is wonderfully favorable for travelling. February 
never came in so mildly and with such spring airs. 
There is a chilly blast in the wind now and then ; 
but it is open, genial weather generally. 

Bess has drawn up her chair “ for a good chat.” 
“ We must make up for lost time,” she says ; “ I 
have been pitying your sufferings most cordially.” 

‘‘ His sufferings !” says Mrs. Kenrick in her quiet 
way; ‘‘your father has been romancing. Do you 
10 * 


226 


CHRISTOPHEE KENRICK. 


think it is likely that he was ever so poor ? And if 
he was, I have no patience with such revelations to 
our friends.” 

“ I suspect those highway scenes are touched up 
with what father calls local color,” says Cissy, with 
something of her former sprightliness. 

Mrs. Kenrick has long been of opinion that the 
career of her husband is a very remarkable chapter 
in biographical and general history,” I say. 

“ Pray do not quote that any more, Christopher ; 
I have been too often reminded of my folly.” 

Oh, by the way,” says Bess, suddenly, “ why do 
you call our mother ‘ Sarah’ in your chapter by the 
way ?” 

“ Do I call her Sarah ?” 

“ Yes, indeed you do.” 

Perhaps it was a slip of the pen,” I say ; “ per- 
haps it was a weak device to baffle the reader. 
Thackeray often miscalled his characters ; I think 
he mentioned the circumstance in a ‘ Roundabout.’ 
It is a common thing for novelists to forget the 
names of their heroes and heroines. You should 
see their proofs, and the queries in them, where one 
lady is sometimes called by half-a-dozen names ; 
one time Sarah, then Esther, then Susan, then Julia.” 

“ How absurd !” says Cissy ; “ fancy an author 
forgetting his heroine’s name !” 

“ Perhaps I did not forget Mrs. Kenrick’s name,” 
I reply. 

I am very glad if you did, Christopher,” says 


A CHAPTEK BY THE WAY. 


227 


Mrs. Kenrick. “ I wish you had forgotten all our 
names, and indeed you should not have written the 
story at all, if I had known what it would be.” 

“ I will not deceive you, ladies and gentlemen ; 
this is no story of exciting adventures, of moving 
accident by flood and field, of most disastrous 
chances,” I say, nodding pleasantly at Mrs. Kenrick. 

“ I believe you have committed your own preface 
to memory for the purpose of quoting it to annoy 
me,” says the lady. 

‘‘I will a round unvarnished tale deliver of my 
whole course of love,” I reply. 

“ For goodness’ sake, Christopher, be quiet,” she 
says. 

“ You must have suffered those sad chances in the 
battle, as you call it,” says Cissy, with an expression 
of sympathy and sorrow. 

“ In the way of a cordial and truthful narrative I 
find some formidable difficulties,” I say, stiU quoting 
and looking at my wife. “ Amongst the chiefest is 
the fear of wounding Mrs. Kenrick’s pride, and low- 
ering the dignity of my family.” 

“ You silly old goose !” exclaims my wife, giving 
me a hearty kiss, and laughing at Bess. 

“ I am sure I cried heartily over that chapter in 
which the hero (I will say the hero, not father) fears 
he will go mad, and wonders if Esther is true to 
him.” 

“ There is a stroke of true genius in that bit of 
description,” says Bess, 


228 


CHBISTOPHEE KENEICK. 


“ Thank you, my dear,” I reply with mock so- 
lemnity. 

That picture story is something like the case 
which has just occurred at Worcester, where a work- 
ing man bought a painting for six pounds, and sold 
it for seven hundred guineas.” 

“It is a little like, Bess; only that poor Abel 
Crockford has not yet sold his picture in our story, 
and the one is a Proccacini, whilst the other is sup- 
posed to be a Velasquez.” 

“ If that in your study at home is not Abel Crock- 
ford’s picture, I am a Dutchman, as Father Ellis 
says,” Bess replies. 

“ Hush, Bess ; don’t let us anticipate, as the liners 
sometimes say ; you are disturbing a future incident 
of my story. There was a case, some years ago, 
where a Beading tradesman thought he had made 
his fortune by the purchase of a picture at a low 
price. He was offered a thousand pounds for it. 
Judges in art said it was the lost Velasquez. The 
Beading man refused a thousand pounds for his 
prize, sold his business, and took his picture to Lon- 
don, where he exhibited it. The work did not prove 
a sufficient attraction to sight-seers, and the picture 
was seized for the rent of the room in which it was 
exhibited. In the middle of the night the poor 
Beading man got through the window, cut the pic- 
ture out of the frame, rolled it up, made off with it, 
and exhibited it in another part of London. Finally, 


A CHAPTER BY THE WAY. 


229 


the man went mad and died, and his picture was 
sold by auction for fifty pounds.” 

“ I hope you told Abel that story,” says Bess. 

“ I did.” 

“ And I can guess what became of his picture.” 

“ Then don’t,” I reply. 

“And have you still more troubles for your 
hero ?” asks Mrs. Kenrick. 

“ He comes to terrible grief in the next few chap- 
ters ; but the sun will shine by and by,” I reply. 

“ Have you any manuscript in hand ?” asks Bess. 

“I have.” 

“ Then instead of a good chat, I propose that 
father reads us a further instalment of his life and 
adventures.” 

“ Yes, yes ; I second the proposition,” says Cissy. 

“Content,” I say; “that is, if Mrs Kenrick’s 
silence may be construed into assent, and on one 
condition — I must not be interrupted, or asked to 
make alterations in the text.” 

“Agreed,” says Bess. 

I look for some reply from my wife. She only 
nods her head, and says, “Go on, Christopher;” 
whereupon I read to my family critics the following 
chapters. 


CHAPTEE XXIII. 


ONCE MORE AT STONY-HEARTED STONEYEIELD. 

It was not until the next day that I reached 
Stoney field. I journeyed thither partly by train and 
partly on foot. The latter part of the way I chose 
to walk, and the familiar country smiled upon me, in 
the early morning, as I neared the old town. 

Nearly five years had elapsed since that little fel- 
low with his little bundle stood and looked up at his 
father’s house and bade it good-bye in the autumn 
mist. 

It had seemed to me like fifty years instead of 
five ; but now as I approached my native town once 
more the past was like a dream, as if I had never 
really run away at all. 

The spring sunshine was lighting up the fields 
and hedgerows, and hashing on the brooks and 
ponds of the well-known country round Stoney field. 
Here and there black patches of coal-land with 
small mountains of fuel and pit-gearing disfigured 
the landscape ; but these only made the green fields 
seem all the greener and the lark’s song more fresh 
and welcome. How bright and sunny and radiant, 
how hopeful and sweetly-scented that morning was 


AT STONY-HEARTED STONEYFIELD. 


231 


I shall never forget. And yet it is a black, bitter 
day in my memory, a dark dismal day, with a pall 
in it and a funeral bell. The trees were putting 
forth new buds, and all the colors of autumn shone 
out in the bursting leaves, all the colors of autumn 
touched with the fresh beauty of Spring. They 
seemed to welcome me back again, the giants of the 
neighboring woods stretching out their arms to me 
like old friends; and I met on the highway two 
farmers whose faces I knew. Nearer still to Stoney- 
field I encountered several factory women going to 
their work, and I passed a group of pitmen who had 
been in the bowels of the earth all night. One of 
them had plucked a handful of primroses ; the oth- 
ers were carrying pieces of wood and coal. They 
were all lively and merry, and so was I until I stood 
upon a hill and saw the town in the distance ; and 
then all the old heart-break came back. All my per- 
secutions, all the little indignities I had suffered 
made themselves into a small army and m^arched in 
procession before me. The dirty-red houses stood 
up in the early smoke of tall chimneys, and the 
harsh church-bell tolled out the hour. My heart 
sank within me. I was hopeful no longer. That 
dream with my mother’s sad voice in it came up in 
my memory — “ And I love him, too.” The words, 
and the sad, sad tone in which they were repeated, 
were in my mind. I seemed suddenly to remember 
all the tender things which my mother had said to 
me in childhood. I saw myself by her knee, I heard 


232 


CHKISTOPHER KENRICK. 


her singing Eobin Adair” in a sweet soft voice. 
And it came into my mind that I should see her no 
more. 

I walked on until I entered the town. It seemed 
to me to be smaller and dirtier and more contempti- 
ble than ever. I loathed it, and yet how I loved 
those trees and brooks and meadows beyond the 
reek of the Stoneyfield chimneys ! When I came to 
my father’s house, it was eight o’clock. The shop 
was open. The same old books and pictures, the 
same miscellaneous things, the same small panes, 
the same counters, the same desks, the same stool, 
the same chairs, nothing altered except that old man 
who was opening his morning letters. 

I went boldly in and stood before him. 

‘‘ Who are you ?” said the stem voice of the old 
man, who raised his eyes from the desk. 

“ Your son, sir,” I replied, calmly. 

“ You are no son of mine,” said my father, show- 
ing a pale, wrinkled face. 

I noticed in a vague, blank sort of fashion that 
his hair was very gray, and that he was dressed all 
in black. 

“ I say you are no son of mine,” the same stern 
voice repeated. 

“Would fchatT were, then!” I said in a penitent 
voice ; “ I have suffered very much.” 

“You have chosen your own way — walk in it,” 
said my father. 

“ I came to ask your forgiveness, and my mother’s,” 


AT STONY-HEAKTED STONEYEIELD. 


233 


I replied ; and I trembled when the soft, kindly 
word, mother, escaped my lips. 

“ Your mother is dead,” said- my father, with sol- 
emn deliberation ; “ dead and buried ! God rest her 
soul!” 

I staggered for a moment under this terribly hard 
blow ; but somehow I knew that she was dead when 
I saw his gray hair and black clothes ; and it had 
been in my mind long before that I should never 
see her again. It was a hard, sudden blow, never- 
theless, to be told of her death in this cold, bitter 
spuit, and my heart was steeled against my father. 
Recovering myself, I returned his calm gaze with a 
glance of defiance. 

“ And is this the way in which you tell her son 
that she is dead ?” 

“ You broke her heart,” said my father. 

‘‘ Oh, no, no, no !” I exclaim ; ‘‘ that is cruel, very 
cruel.” 

“She talked of no one but you when she was 
dying.” 

“ God bless her !” I said. 

“ She pined after you in secret.” 

“ My poor mother I” I said. 

“ You must be punished for your ingratitude.” 

“ I am punished : I am a miserable outcast 1” I 
said, all my fine resolutions of firmness and defiance 
breaking down. 

“Have you anything more to say?” my father 
asked ; I have business to attend to.” 


234 


CHRISTOPHER KENRICK. 


leather,” I began, intending to make a penitent, 
dutiful, and affectionate speech, if only out of re- 
spect to my motheris memory ; but the old man cut 
me short. 

“ Don’t ‘ father’ me ; you are no son of mine, I 
tell you.” 

I bowed my head and left the place, and walked 
on through the smoky town with a benumbed sen- 
sation about my heart that seemed to make me im- 
pervious to all sense of sight or feeling. I walked 
on and on. I was not in pain. There were no tears 
in my eyes, no choking sensation in my throat. I 
was hke an automaton, with legs and arms and no 
heart, no mind, no brain, no pulse. How long I 
remained in this condition I know not even now; 
but for a time I must have lost my senses, and 
it was long before they all came back again. Far 
in the afternoon I found myself sitting on a high- 
road with several people round me. 

“ He’s been in a fit,” said one. 

“Nowt of the sort,” said another, “he’s nobbut 
had a drop too much, I wouldna moind being in a 
fit of that sort ivery day of my loif.” 

“The young man is not well,” said a kindlier 
voice, “he will be better soon, don’t crowd about 
him.” 

“What is the matter?” I said, looking round in 
astonishment. 

“ Ah, thot’s what we want to knaw ; thou’s been 
getting drunk, young whipper-snapper,” said a rough- 


AT STONY-HEARTED STONEYEIELD. 


235 


looking fellow, one of the Stoneyfield gamins, of 
that class whom I had had to fight at every street 
comer when I was a boy. 

I leaped upon him like a tiger, and gripped his 
throat with a deadly clutch ; but the people parted 
us. I could have murdered him ; for I felt just then 
that Stoneyfield had murdered me. 

“ Oh, what a vixen !” said a woman. 

“ The brute !” said another. 

“ Gie him a dommed good hiding,” said a cockney- 
looking boy to the one whom I had seized so sud- 
denly. 

“’Who’ll do it?” I said, shaking off the man who 
had held me by the arm' planting my left foot firmly 
down and clenching my fists, ready to revenge all 
the insults and cruelties I had suffered in Stoneyfield 
upon the first comer. 

-At this moment there arrived upon the scene a 
lady and gentleman who had evidently been out for 
an afternoon walk. A dog was leaping on in front, 
and the group about me was thus increased. 

“ What’s going on here ?” said the gentleman, ad- 
justing a pair of light spectacles. 

“ Ho, ho, ho, haw, haw !” exclaimed the lively 
youth, who had suggested that I should receive a 
good hiding, “ he wants to put it; i’ the paper.” 

“ Silence, you brute !” exclaimed the gentleman. 

“Ho, ho, haw, haw!” shouted the youth, running 
off. “ Specs, specs, ho, ho I” 

The Stoneyfield youth varied his amusement by 


236 


CHRISTOPHER KENRICK. 


throwing a stone at the dog and nearly hitting a 
woman, whereupon another youth threw a stone at 
the other youth, and got up a fight with his brother 
in consequence. During this encounter Mr. Noel 
Stanton came up to me and said — 

“ Why, it’s Christopher Kenrick.” 

“ Indeed,” said his wife (formerly Miss Birt), “ and 
a nice disgrace he is to any one j come along, Stan- 
ton.” 

“ What is the matter — can I assist you?” said my 
old Editor. 

“ No, thank you, Mr. Stanton,” I said. 

“ You can only assist him to a fight — that seems 
to be his idea of happiness,” said a bystander. 

Noel received this remark with an uncomfortable 
shrug, and I glanced sorrowfully up at my Lindford 
antagonist. He took me aside, despite his wife, who 
looked contemptuously at me from a little distance. 

“ You are in some trouble,” said Mr. Stanton. ‘‘ I 
am the editor of the Stoneyfield News, and the lady 
who was Miss Birt is my wife : if I can do anything 
for you, my address is No. 10 Coaldust Crescent.” 

“ Thank you, sir,” I said. 

“ Come, come, Stanton,” said his wife. 

Stanton plucked up his collars, adjusted his spec- 
tacles, offered Mrs. S. his arm, whistled his dog, and 
went his way. 

The little crowd of lookers-on dispersed. I found 
that I was on the outskirts of the borough, and it 
was nearly evening. 


AT STONY-HEARTED STONEYEIELD. 


237 


When it was quite dark I entered a wayside inn, 
and found lodgings for the night. In the morning I 
asked how far it was to Lindford. 

‘‘ Thirty miles,” said the host. 

“Straight on?” I asked. 

“ Yes, this is the old coaching road.” 

“ Is there a railway-station near ?” I asked. 

“ Yes, a mile off.” 

And I started on my way toward Lindford. I 
do not know why it came into my head to go to 
Lindford, unless it was that the name was so familiar 
to me. I hardly thought of Esther, or Mrs. Mitch- 
ing, or anybody. I did not seem to care for anybody, 
or for anything. I was too indifferent about myself 
to take the trouble to commit suicide, or I might, 
perhaps, have got into a river, or thrown myseK down 
a pit. I trudged along the road in a mopish, 
apathetic, careless way, until I was faint Avith 
hunger, and then I bought some bread at a village, 
and went on again until night, when I entered 
another inn, and obtained a lodging. 

It was an old-fashioned bedroom, this second one 
in which I slept on my way to Lindford, and there 
was a picture of “ Our Saviour Blessing Little Chil- 
dren” on the wall. That beautiful story of the Man 
of Sorrows had always touched me in my youth, and 
the sight of the picture struck a tender chord in my 
heart. I fell upon my knees for the first time since 
I had heard of my mother’s death. All my own 
sufferings at once paled before the memory of the 


238 


CHRISTOPHER KENRICK. 


Master’s sorrow. If I had been rejected, if my 
heart had been seared, how had Christ suffered, and 
with what sublime magnanimity had He borne His 
cross ! Who was I that I should complain and curse 
my wretched fate? I prayed earnestly that God 
would forgive me my sins, and guide me in this my 
hour of tribulation. As I prayed I came to myself 
again. That dull, apathetic numbness about my 
heart softened, and I saw my mother’s face and 
heard the gentle words of my dream, “ I do love 
him, I do love him.” Then I thought of Esther, and 
wondered in my heart if God would reward me for 
all I had suffered by bringing us two together at the 
last. 

What strange dreams I had that night, varied by 
terror and happiness, struggles with demons, and 
rescues by angels ! I must have slept well at last, 
for I did not wake until nearly eleven o’clock, and I 
felt something like my old self again ; but still sad 
and weary and anxious, fearful about the future, and 
sorry for the past. 

I had only twopence after I had paid for my 
bed ; so I took no breakfast, but spent the whole of 
my capital in bread at the next village, and walked 
on as fast as I could, hoping to reach Lindford at 
night, but quite uncertain about what I should do 
when I got there. 

Oh, what misery might have been spared to him 
and to me, if my father had only relented for one 
moment in his manner toward me! I learnt in 


AT STONY-HEARTED STONEYEIELD. 239 

after-years that cold and harsh and cruel as he had 
seemed to me, there was a soft comer in his heart, 
where some of the true paternal nature still nour- 
ished a fond thought of the wayward son. My 
father’s was one of those strange natures which is 
ever crying, “ justice,” ‘‘ duty,” ‘‘ obedience,” and 
which lays its heavy hand at once upon any who 
fall away from the hard, beaten path of principle 
and duty. ‘‘ Honor thy father and thy mother,” my 
father had laid down as the one command for his 
son ; obedience, strict, severe obedience, no frivolity, 
no boyish waywardness. I broke down under the 
discipline, and it was right, according to my father’s 
theory, that I should be punished. There came a 
day when he was sorry for me, nevertheless. The 
more the pity that he thrust back his better nature 
when the penitent son was ready to throw himself 
at his feet. 

Fathers, be generous as well as just to your chil- 
dren. A tender word now and then to that boy in 
the Stoneyfield printing-office, would have made 
him as happy as the Prince in the fairy tale. 

Some little consideration for the bent of Christo- 
pher Kenrick’s genius would have made that old 
shop, with its old-world books and songs, a paradise. 
Even Stoneyfield might have been endeared to his 
memory had justice been tempered with generosity, 
and paternal discipline softened with paternal ten- 
derness. Kind fathers make kind sons. When 
they do not, then is the son accursed ; let his sins be 


240 


CHRISTOPHER KENRICK. 


upon his own head. I can say this honestly and 
fearlessly, though I did run away from home ; for the 
memory of those sufferings of my early youth has 
in it a pang of bitterness even in my latter days. I 
can look back and pity my own poor little self with 
the pity of a man who has suffered and is strong. 

This by the way. 



CHAPTEE XXIV. 


I AM PENNILESS AND HUNGBY. 

I MUST have lost my way, for at nightfall, when I 
inquired how far it was to Lindford, I had still eight 
miles to go. I crept into an out-house where there 
was some straw, and slept the sleep of the weary 
and hungry. It has often occurred to me since then 
that I might have been locked up under the vagrant 
laws, for ‘‘ wandering abroad without any visible 
means of subsistence.” What would they have done 
with me, the justices ? Perhaps some blundering, 
hard-hearted idiot might have sent me to jail. 
Christopher Kenrick, Esquire, of Hallow, gentleman, 
author, artist, and J. P., might have been con- 
demned to a week’s imprisonment, as a vagrant, for 
being penniless and houseless. That crime is terri- 
ble in the eyes of some of my own brother magis- 
trates. The Eev. Paul Felton (who is just now ap- 
pointed to the commission of the peace) would have 
given me a month. Dimes and dollars, dollars and 
dimes, an empty pocket is the worst of crimes. But 
an empty stomach, too, dear friends, what a terrible 
thing that is ! how it gnaws at your heart-strings, 
and twists all your better feelings into hard, bitter 
knots ! 


242 


CHUISTOPHEE KENRICK. 


I got up in the morning, and happily sneaked out 
into the highway before Mister Farmer found me on 
his straw ; and out on the highway I felt so pitifully 
hungry and wretched, that I nearly came to beg- 
ging some bread at a cottage. The blood of all the 
Kenricks revolted at the notion ; but it was rather a 
weak revolt, it only crimsoned my cheek for a mo- 
ment, and then rushed back to my heart like a half- 
starved garrison retreating after an unsuccessful 
sortie. 

Here was I, the son of a well-to-do father, the heir 
to an honorable race of men and women, a young 
man of literary promise, a proficient reporter, a mu- 
sician, something of an artist, and one who could be 
husband to a beautiful rich lady — here was I, this 
accomplished gentleman, starving ; yes, sir, literally 
starving. I say it fearlessly, howsoever much my 
family may now blush at the declaration. I did not 
beg, but I very heartily wished I had my fiddle that 
I might play a tune by the way, and see if any one 
would pay the minstrel for his melody. “ Oliver 
Goldsmith, the beloved of all men, travelled through- 
out Europe,” I thought, “ and paid his way with 
flute melodies ; why should not I, Christopher Ken- 
rick, fiddle my way to Lindford ?” I was in a weakly 
satirical mood, and tried to think how much a road- 
side cottage would pay for “ Eobin Adair,” and what 
an ancient set of quadrilles would bring at a public- 
house, where a jolly farmer was watering his horse 
and quaffing a jug of ale. 


I AM PENNILESS AND HUNGKY. 


243 


Oh, but it was heart-breaking work, and by the 
time that I had walked about four miles, I began to 
think I should faint by the way and die. I paused 
to rest near a quiet bend in the road : and my eyes 
fell with a soothing, gentle kind of impulse upon 
the green lawn of an old country-house ; my eyes 
rested on the grass, and then w^andered, with ivy and 
spring rose-buds, up the sides of the house, and away 
amongst its old gables, in which a small flock of 
birds were secretly building their nests. What a 
quiet, retiring kind-looking old place it was, with 
white blinds and half-open windows, with stunted 
smoking chimneys, with trees peeping over lichen- 
covered roofs, with spring breezes wandering about 
it, and moving the blinds as they went in and out of 
the little diamond-paned windows ! If I had only 
my violin,” I thought, ‘‘ I would play ‘ Eobin Adair’ 
to this kind-looking house.” “ Sing it,” said my 
poor, empty stomach ; “ sing it, Kenrick, and they’ll 
give you sixpence ; there is a village beyond, with 
bread and cheese for sale.” Again the blood of the 
Kenricks struggled into my cheeks ; but I Tvas very 
hungry. 

Pulling my hair about my forehead, slouching my 
hat over my eyes, buttoning my collar up round my 
throat, and assuming an a’wkward gait, that I might 
thus disguise my person, I pushed the gate aside, 
stood nervously upon the green lawn, and began to 
sing. I remember hearing a weak, trembling, hollow 
voice sing or say, “What’s this dull world to me?” 


244 


CHKISTOPHER KENEICK. 


and that is all. I must haye fainted, as I had feared 
I should, from sheer weakness and hunger. When I 
came to myself, I was sitting in an easy-chair in a 
comfortable little room. A mild, soft-eyed, middle- 
aged lady was by my side. On the table there Avas 
wine and meat. I stammered out all sorts of apol- 
ogies. The lady begged me to eat and drink, and 
I did so with an eagerness that I was ashamed of. 

This was at once one of the darkest and brightest 
hours of my life. Who says Fate guides us not to 
our fortunes ? Who says a merciful Providence 
doth not stoop sometimes to put a poor mortal in 
the way that shall lead him to happiness ? It was 
a lucky nook that green wayside retreat ; it is still 
a bright spot in my memory, on that dark road from 
Harbourford to Lindford. Heaven knows, it was 
high time some gleam of sunshine should light on 
me ! As I left that old house I saw — whom do you 
think, ascending the staircase, whom do you think ? 
For a moment I nearly shouted with joy. Just as I 
was passing through the hall a voice that I knew 
startled me. I looked up and behold there was 
my darling on the stairs, leading a child by the 
hand. There she was, my blue-eyed, round-faced, 
graceful, gentle Esther. I bent my head, and put 
on my ugly gait. She did not know me, but I 
caught a glance of her eye, and it went straight to 
my heart. 

Once more in the road, and on my way, I 
wondered why Esther was here. “ She has married 


I AM PENNILESS AND HUNGKY. 245 

Mr. Howard,” said a miserable, sneaking whisper, 
for a moment ; but I denounced it as false and 
wicked. For all that, I stopped a butcher boy on 
his way to the house. 

“ Who lives there ?” I asked. 

Lady Somerfield,” said the boy. 

“Do you know the young lady there?” I said, 
with cunning deference. 

“ What, her with the blue eyes and soft voice ?” 

“ Yes, yes,” I said, cheerily. 

“ Should think I do !” 

“ Do you know her name ?” 

“ Yes, I know her name.” 

“ What is it, sir ?” I asked, with eagerness, but 
still deferentially. 

“ Miss Wilton.” 

“ God bless you, God bless you !” I shouted ; 
dashing into his hand one of Lady Somerfield’s two 
half-crowns (which she had slipped into my pocket), 
and nearly shaking his arm off. 

How strong I felt ! I could have hugged that 
butcher boy, and carried him in my arms. 

“ Good-bye, good-bye,” I said, waving my hand to 
the astonished youth. 

How my thoughts rattled on ! “ Once more into 

the breach, dear friends, once more ?” I said aloud. 
“ Now, Kenrick, be brave, there is luck in that way- 
side house ; be brave, and you will conquer yet !” 

I thought how with the first half-sovereign I got I 
would buy a present for Lady Somerfield, to wipe out 


246 


CHKISTOPHER KENRICK. 


the stigma of alms. Was that mean or high-spirited, 
generous, proud, or what ? I cannot decide even 
now. 

‘‘What is Esther in that house,” I wondered; 
“ governess or companion ? Has she rebelled 
against the undue influence of Emmy, with regard 
to Mr. Howard, and left her home ? Has she been 
forced to go out to earn her own living, because she 
won’t marry the rich suitor? Is she still true to 
Christopher Kenrick ? My heart said she was, and 
my memory endorsed the affirmation with a thou- 
sand treasured confessions of the Lindford maiden. 
“ They made me do it. I do love you.” Dear, 
faithful, true, loving words, my heart set them to a 
sweet tune, and I sang them all the way to Lindford. 

It was borne in upon me that the turning point in 
my fortunes had come, and it was so ; but there 
was a hard, rugged road still to be mastered. I 
cared not for that, if there was a reasonable hope at 
last of reaching that goal, whence Esther and I might 
go on hand in hand together for the remainder of 
life’s journey. 

Lindford looked bright and cheerful as I entered 
it that evening on foot. None of those bitter memo- 
ries which crowded on me at Stoneyfield, broke in 
upon the welcome which the old city seemed to give 
me. Crossing the common where I had walked with 
the girl in the lama frock, I stopped to watch the sun 
setting upon the fine old cathedral, and tinging the 
waters of the quiet peaceful river upon which Esther 


I AM PENNILESS AND HUNGEY. 


247 


and I had sailed amongst the weeds and rushes, 
gathering water-lilies and making love. 

The shops were all open and the gas was lighted. 
I stopped to peep in at Mitching’s and think of the 
past. My dress was travel-stained, or I should have 
entered at once. The windows did not look so well 
filled as of yore. The shop was not so neat as 
usual ; but there was the old smell of Eussia leather, 
a perfume which to this day always conjures up in 
my mind the picture of that famous shop, with a 
runaway boy peering in at the door. 

From this point I went straight to Mrs. Nixon’s. 
She came to the door herself, with a candle in her 
hand, the usual rainbow in her cap, the old pin in 
her eye (it represented a clever ophthalmic operation, 
that pin), and her accustomary self-assertion of man- 
ner, which made her at once the terror and envy of 
her neighbors. 

“ Who is it ?” she said, after a short pause. “ I 
know the face.” 

“ Christopher Kenrick,” I said. If my fortunes 
had not been so low I should have said Mr. Kenrick, 
and effected an entrance at once. As it was, I hesi- 
tated on the doorstep, and said, “ Christopher Ken- 
rick ; and I hope you are well, Mrs. Nixon.” 

“ Yes. Well as times go, thank you. Come in : 
don’t stand there.” 

In former days she would have said, “ Come in, 
sir,” and been as obsequious as a due sense of her 
own importance would have permitted ; but she 


248 


CHRISTOPHEE KENRICK. 


could see at once tliat I was not a flourisliing mem- 
ber of society, and slie treated me accordingly. 

« Why, Lor bless us ! how thin and pale you’ve 
got !” she said, when we were within that little back 
room which Tom Folgate and I called the spider’s den. 
She used to sit there and spin her webs, we said, 
and dart out upon poor flies, who were attracted by 
the notice of ‘‘Genteel apartments, with attendance.” 

“ Can I have a bedroom, Mrs. Nixon ?” I said ; “ I 
am not very well off ; but I can pay for my lodgings.” 

“ You always did pay me,” she said in a patroni- 
zing way ; “ and I will trust to your honor again, 
though it is more than I can say of some people as 
was grander in their ideas and stuck up. Where 
have you left your luggage ?” 

“ I have none ; at least none of any importance ; 
and I have walked some distance on foot,” I said. 

“ Have you got no change of things ?” 

I felt myself getting angry at these questions; 
but I controlled my feelings sufficiently to reply 
calmly and courteously. 

“ I have not. If you object to let me have a room, 
Mrs. Nixon, I must go elsewhere.” 

“ Object ! not I, indeed. We’ve all gotten our 
ups and downs ; and I was onty thinking as when 
you went away you left a waistcoat, a shirt, and 
some collars behind. People that has been in the 
habit of letting lodgings regular, would have con- 
sidered them perquisites; but when you go up to 
your room. I’ll lay them on the bed for you, and you 


I AM PENNILESS AND HUNGEY. 


249 


can testify to the difference between professed lodg- 
ings and them as is brought up in a higher state of 
life. Next year I shall go out to my husband in 
America, and have done with lodgings. I’ll light you 
up stairs ; and perhaps you would like a cup of tea ?” 

“Thank you very much, Mrs. Nixon,” I said. 
“ This is, indeed, kind. Has Mr. Folgate left you?” 

I began to feel anxious about things that had 
happened during my absence from Lindford. 

“ Lor bless you ! Left me ? He’s bin gone from 
Lindford this many a month — eighteen, at least ; 
and didn’t you know ?” 

“ I thought he might have gone to Kussia,” I said, 
“ but I did not know.” 

“ Ah, deary me 1” she said, tossing up her rainbow 
ribbons, and nodding her head at the ceiling ; 
“ it’s a queer story — a very queer story.” 

“ I know little or nothing of Lindford since I left 
it,” I said, encouragingly. “ I shall be glad to hear 
all the news.” 

“I’ll tell you all I know,” said Mrs. Nixon, 
“ when you come down — ah, deary me ! Lor bless 
us!” 

It was my old bedroom. That was kind and 
considerate. If Mrs. Nixon had treated me with 
more personal respect I should positively have liked 
her. I drew aside the window-blind to look at 
Esther Wilton’s dear house. There were lights in 
all the other windows but in these. By the glimmer 
of an adjacent gas-lamp I could see that the house 
11 * 


250 


CHllISTOPHEE KENRICK. 


was shut up, and “To Let” written upon it. I 
closed the blind with a sigh, and picked up my old 
waistcoat and the other things which Mrs. Nixon 
kept for me. How familiar they looked ! Esther 
had lain her dear head once upon that waistcoat. 
I kissed the place where her brown sunny hair 
had been, and when I descended the stairs in that 
well-remembered garment (it was a black velvet with 
tiny gray spots upon it), I felt as though Esther’s 
dear hand was upon me. 

“ In the first place, Mr. Folgate owes me seven 
pounds fourteen shillings and twopence halfpenny,” 
said Mrs. Nixon, after tea ; “ and I ’spose that’s 
gone for good, and that’s not a comfortable thing to 
have on your mind ; but, however, thank goodness, 
I can get over it. And didn’t you know as he had 
eloped?” 

“ Eloped !” I exclaimed, thinking to myself — “ and 
that is why Wilton’s house is to let, Emmy and Tom 
have eloped!” 

“ Yes ! Lor, the fluster and noise as it caused in 
Lindford I First, Mr. Folgate was missing, and then 
Mrs. Mitching.” 

“ Mrs. Mitching 1” I said. 

“ Mrs. Mitching,” she said, as though she revelled 
in the name, — “ Mrs. Mitching.” 

I did not understand what the woman meant. 

“They went separately, and met at Liverpool, 
where they was followed to by the police, but with- 
out no effect.” 


I AM PENNILESS AND HUNGRY. 


251 


“ Tom Folgate eloped with Mrs. Hitching?” 

“ Lor bless us ! Yes; it was in all the papers.” 

“ Then, that was what Fitzwalton fancied I knew, 
and which he would not repeat.” 

“Fitzwalton! that’s him as was the brother-in-law 
of the young lady that Mr. Stanton married; and 
wasn’t it a wedding ! Deary me 1 why all Lindford 
was there. And to see the bridegroom a-wiping his 
glasses, and pulling his collars up every minute ! If 
it wasn’t as good as a play I never see one.” 

Mrs. Nixon laughed heartily, and flourished her 
capstrings at the remembrance of this wedding scene. 

“And to see the lady a-looking round, as if all the 
men in the church was envying the gentleman in the 
collars 1 Well, it was fun, though she was a pretty 
girl for all that, and a nice, pleasant face, which 
might have done better than take up with a news- 
paper fellar — begging your pardon for once, Mr. 
Kenrick, as you know I always thought higher of 
you than the common run of such people.” 

It was deftly done, and clever of Mrs. Nixon, to 
call me “ Mister Kenrick” at this juncture, though I 
was too much interested in what she was telling me 
to care whether she put her news to me offensively 
or not. 

“It’s been a great break-up, I can assure you. 
Poor Hitching ! He was took ill, and he’s gone 
quite silly, poor man I — quite imbecile ; and he’s in 
this very house, under my care, and a melancholy 
object to see ; always a-waiting of his wife, till it 


252 


CHEISTOPHEE KENEICK. 


makes a body as has a heart fit to cry, and long to 
kill that heartless woman. I am not one as is given 
to weakness, having been so long obliged to make 
my own way in the world, and knowing what it is ; 
but my heart bleeds for that old man, though it’s 
true an old man shouldn’t have married a young, 
flighty girl. He’d only just gone to sleep when you 
came in, and he wakes up in the night like a child.” 

a Terrible news !” I said, “ terrible news !” and 
then I remembered a hundred little circumstances 
which indicated something more than mere friend- 
ship between that pretty, fascinating little woman 
and Tom Folgate. Before I could ask a question 
about Emmy Wilton, Mrs. Nixon, who seemed to 
relish her narrative, dashed on into further details. 
The bearer of news, bad or ill, usually takes a por- 
tion of the importance of his tidings unto himself. 
Mrs. Nixon seemed to swell with oracular power. 
Her eyes flashed, her cheeks were red with excite- 
ment, her ribbons were in a perpetual flutter ; and 
she awed me with the vastness of her gossip. 

“Knowing as that affair between you and the 
youngest is put off, and as none of the others cares 
a button about you, it won’t grieve you much to 
know as the Wiltons w^as not long in coming down 
from their stuck-uppishism. Them two megs — poor 
squinchy things ! with their noses up in the air and 
their gowns in the mud ! — one on ’em is keeping a 
school, and the other is living on the bit and sup as 
the mother has got left to her. It’s a mercy as you 


I AM PENNILESS AND HUNGRY. 


253 


didn’t carry on your notion of marrying into that 
family, which is always burning the candle at both 
ends ; but that married brother got the best of ’em 
at last, and burnt his end right up to within an inch 
of the other ; so they had to sell up and go away, 
and the old woman is living in a little house at 
Fleetborough.” 

Whilst Mrs. Nixon took breath I asked, with as 
much unconcern as I could assume, what became of 
Miss Esther. 

“ She’s companion, or something, at Lady Somer- 
field’s, a few miles off, as the late Lord S. he knew 
her father ; they lived on his estate, I think. It’s a 
nice child, Esther, if it was not for the family, and 
good-looking enough ; but a bit dollish. They say 
as young Squire Howard made her an offer, but it’s 
the pride of that Emmy to say so, because, of course, 
she’d have jumped at him if he had. It was a fall 
for Miss Emmy, that ’lopement of Mr. Eolgate ; 
but pride always has its falls, and I never stopped 
saying as the Wiltons would have theirs.” 

“ And where is Emmy Wilton ?” 

“ Oh, Lor bless you ! she braves it out. She’s 
governess at Doctor Sharpe’s, Uphill, and struts 
about as if nothing had happened, as proud as 
Lucifer, and cuts the megs, I’m told— though I 
admires her spirit for that.” 

Such was the melancholy news upon which I went 
to bed that first night of my return to Lindford. 


254 


CHEISTOPHEE KENEICK. 


How rapidly events had developed themselves ! 
The occurrences at Lindford, for the time, thrust the 
miseries I had endured during the last few days out 
of my thoughts. Even my dead mother, and that 
terrible encounter in my father’s house, were pushed 
aside by those two desolate houses : that one in the 
High Street, and the other over the way, with “ To 
Let” upon it. The disparity of the age of Hitching 
and his wife had struck me, boy as I was, when first 
I saw the lady on that memorable day when Mr. 
Hitching announced to me, in presence of his charm- 
ing wife, that I should give them the benefit of my 
experience in the art of printing and publishing on 
the morrow. What a pretty, piquant, swan-like 
little fairy the woman was ! Then I remembered 
that famous party, and how I sat in the church- 
porch, and heard a voice say “Good-bye, dear;” 
then I remembered how the lady had S23oken to me 
of Tom and Emmy Wilton ; and I could not help 
thinking how short-sighted I must have been in 
those days. Poor old Hitching ! his young wife 
was the idol of his life ; and, now that it was broken, 
no wonder his weak little brain was turned. Dear, 
pompous old gentleman, with his gold-rimmers, I 
shall never forget him as he used to stand, making 
speeches at me, and believing himself to be an 
orator, with the sweetest and dearest and prettiest 
little wife in creation. 

I put out my candle and looked over the way, and 


I AM PENNILESS AND HUNGRY. 


255 


thouglit of the Wiltons. I could hardly realize all 
the changes that had taken place. I forgave Emmy 
for her unkindness to me. My heart ached for her^ 
“ They made me do it.” Surely Tom Folgate had 
not helped Emmy to believe that I had behaved 
badly in visiting Julia Belmont ! I had often 
thought that something might come between Emmy 
and Tom to prevent their marriage. That Mrs. 
Mitching would be the evil genius of Emmy’s life I 
never dreamed. Tom, somehow, did not believe in 
Emmy. Perhaps it was because he did not believe 
in himself. He never trusted her implicitly, and he 
never trusted himself. Emmy, like a young woman 
of the world, no doubt tried to hurry on the engage- 
ment into matrimony. Whether she used more than 
the customary arts of the sex, I know not. I think 
Tom might have been conquered by loving, gentle, 
tender wiles ; but Emmy was proud, and a trifle 
worldly. And what was Tom Eolgate ? Passion’s 
slavp ! A wayward, uncertain fellow, without moral 
ballast, and yet one of those manly-looking, out- 
spoken, hot-headed, generous-seeming men whom 
men like, and whom women admire. I used to love 
Tom Eolgate. I had a sneaking affection for him, 
notwithstanding that elopement ; but he behaved 
like a villain, and he has two blighted lives to answer 
for. So far as Mrs. Mitching is concerned, she 
made as much love to Tom as he made to her. Her 
sin be upon her own head. But poor Mitching ajid 


256 


CHRISTOPHEE KENPJCK. 


Emmy Wilton, Tom Eolgate blasted tlieir lives 
entirely. 

What a break-up it was ! It seemed to me as if I 
was an old man in sorrow. What experiences I had 
had ! None so young, I thought, could have seen 
the way strewn with so many wrecked hopes. And 
yet the moon, “ like a silver bow bent in heaven,” 
shone out serenely as I stood at the window con- 
templating that sign of misery, ‘‘ To Let.” I 
watched it sailing on with a bright sentinel star in 
company. I watched it calmly pass over the spot 
where the river slipped away through the meadows. 
I watched it glimmer upon the red roofs of the High 
Street. I watched it shine on that white, ghost-like 
board over the way, and I spelt out the letters once 
more, “ To Let.” Then I thought of the sad house 
at Stoneyfield, and the churchyard; and a silent, 
prayerful hope escaped my lips, that God would 
turn my father’s heart toward me. I saw my 
mother’s pale face in that Harbourford dream^ and 
heard her poor, broken voice. ‘‘ O moon !” I said, 
“ what a bitter lot is mine !” The “ pale queen” 
only sailed on with her attendant star; but there 
was something hopeful, nevertheless, in the clear 
bright night. Perhaps Esther, I thought, is looking 
out into the moonlight ; and I stood in fancy by her 
side with the moonbeams tenderly clasping her dear 
lithe figure, the ivy of that old manor-house rustling 
in the low, murmuring breeze. “ I will be true to 


I AM PENNILESS AND HUNGEY. 


257 


thee, Esther,” I said aloud ; and I repeated over and 
over again those dear words in pencil, ‘‘ They made 
me do it. I do love you.” 

I closed the window at last. Soon afterward the 
moon shone into the room, as if it had heard my 
complaint, and was sorry for me. 



CHAPTEE XXV. 


EXTRACTS FROM MY DIARY. 

At various periods of my life I have attempted to 
keep a diary ; but chiefly at those times when the 
tenor of my way has been broken in upon by start- 
ling and important incidents — startling and im- 
portant to me as affecting my own career. 

For some time, commencing immediately after 
Mrs. Nixon’s extraordinary narrative, I made a 
series of notes in my common-place book, from 
which I transcribe the following extracts. 

3Iay 2. — This day I saw a touching and pitiful 
sight. I had been out in the morning, and returned 
to dinner. Coming to Mrs. Nixon’s house, saw an 
old man hiding round the corner. He peeped about, 
to see if he was being watched. Then came out 
Mrs. Nixon, making a sign to me to notice what 
would occur. With a great show of mock caution 
she peered round the corner, and then the old man 
got cunningly behind the yard door. It was poor 
Mitching !— that self-same George Mitching, Esq., 
who used to pin me down with his gold-rimmers ; 
that same tender, conflding old gentleman, who told 
me it was a proud and blessed thing for any one to 


EXTKACTS FROM MY DIARY. 


259 


win the esteem and good opinion of Mrs. Hitching. 
He was a poor, foolish imbecile now ; he spent half 
his time in pretending to run away and hide from 
Mrs. Nixon, and the other half in asking when Mrs. 
Hitching would come back. “She is a very long 
time,” he said, in a complaining voice, when he came 
into the house. “I do wish she would come. We 
will give a grand party when she does come.” He 
looked at me in a maudlin, silly fashion through 
the same heavy glasses that he had always worn, 
but he did not know me. It made my heart ache 

to see him I must leave these lodgings; 

the sight of poor old Hitching is a perpetual torture 
to me. “ Out of doubt, Antipholis is mad.” 

May 3. — Met Cator Manners, manager of the 
Lindford Theatre. Condoled with me; lent me a 
sovereign, and engaged me as prompter at the 
splendid salary of one pound a week, “ until I can 
better myself.” I am to assist Mr. Manners in his 
correspondence (he has three other theatres besides 
Lindford), and make myself generally useful. Have 
written to Esther at Lady Somerfield’s, and put all 
my heart into it. A court of law would laugh at it. 
How is it that people laugh at love-making ? Surely 
it is the best and purest and noblest impulse of our 
nature. For my own part, there is nothing that I 
would not do for Esther Wilton. My enthusiasm, 
in this respect, is redoubled since I permitted those 
mercenary ideas about Julia Belmont to creep into 
my mind. If I had never seen Esther Wilton, I 


260 


CHKISTOPHEE KENRICK. 


wonder if I should have ever been in love with Miss 
Belmont ? 

May 4. — Joy! Letter from my dear girl. Very 
short, very sweet, and the last words are the dear 
old pencil words over again, “ They made me do it. 
I do love yon.” I am not to come and see her yet, 
for reasons which she will explain. She is still my 
own dear Esther. Hazlitt’s maudlin passion for 
“ S.” would not have been more satisfied with a ten- 
der return than my own true love is with this dear 

letter Abel Crockford sends me an order for 

two pounds, on account, he says, of the things in his 
possession. He is a good soul. His picture has 
been mentioned in a newspaper. Mem. Might not 
an interesting tale be written with Abel for its hero : 
“ The Story of a Picture?” There is much charac- 
ter in Abel Crockford. Wonder what has become 
of my other stories. Are they bread on the 
waters ? Will they turn up again after many days ? 
And how ? through the butterman, or in type, and 
printed ? 

May 6. — “ More matter for a May morning.” 
This is my lucky month. How strange, in the 
midst of my speculations about those stray manu- 
scripts, to find that one has been used I After the 
play, last night, went with Cator Manners to drink 
whisky at the Shakspeare Inn. Picked up a news 
paper, — saw, quite accidentally, a quotation from 
The Athenian Magazine, headed, “ Fathers and 
Sons,” and at the bottom, ‘^Christopher Kenrick.” 


EXTRACTS FROM MY DIARY. 


261 


I shouted hurrah three times, and then showed the 
paper to Manners. The extract was from one of the 
numerous essays which I had written at Crock- 
ford’s. I made an excuse to leave the Shakspeare 
as early as possible. I went out into the street, and 
almost cried for joy. My thoughts seemed to influ- 
ence my legs ; I walked and walked and walked 
until I was in the country, away from gas-lights, 
almost unable to control the proud and grateful 

throbbings of my heart I am very successful 

at the .theatre. Wonder if Esther would object to 
my being an actor. Julia Belmont used to praise 
my reading. Mrs. Wilton told me that newspaper 

persons were as bad as theatricals 3Iem. To 

write an essay on “ The Stage,” and show that the 
drama represents the highest order of art. Believe 
this has been done ; but no matter, do it again in 
a fresh, light, trenchant style. What a charming, 
sweet, delightful Miranda Esther would make ! with 
C. K. for Ferdinand, “ O, most dear mistress !” I 
could find a real Caliban at Stoneyfield, where such 

devils abound Called this day at the Lind- 

ford Herald. The house is in the hands of a new 
firm. The editor said the paper would represent 
“the other side” of politics in future. He talked of 
the great and glorious liberties of the people ; gave 
me the date of Magna Charta, and declared that, if 
his pen could influence the course of national events, 
the new year should clothe in effulgent rays the 
undying splendors of an enlightened and pure gov- 


262 


CHHISTOPHEE lOENEICK. 


eminent, Laving its foundations deeply laid in the 
hearts of a free, unselfish, and independent iDeople. 
I said, “ Good-morning, sir,” and wondered, suppos- 
ing he had ordered me out of his room, if I could 
have floored him” as easily as I did Noel Stanton 
in those past days. Fancy poor, dear “Specs” 
marrying Miss Birt ! I am getting quite brisk and 
lively. The sun is rising in my heart. There are 
shadows now and then, — dark ones ; but I begin to 
see the light, — I begin to see the light. 

May 8, Sunday . — Did not think my clothes were 
good enough to be seen at church in. I despise 
myself a little for staying away on this account. 
Took a long walk, and prayed earnestly and thank- 
fully in the fields, surrounded by the most sublime 
and beautiful evidences of Divine power. Oh, the 
beneficent budding Spring! Composed part of a 
jubilant welcome to the season : — 

Joyous, flaunting, tender Spring, 

Songs of hope to thee I’ll sing : 

Waft them. Zephyr, on thy wing, 

^ And whisper Esther’s name. 
******* 

Hail ! Mother of the flowers. 

Dear saint of leafy bowers : 

Thy tears are Summer showers. 

When blossoms droop and fade. 

Shall polish this up “ for music ” This morn- 

ing got a check for three pounds from The Athenian 
Magazine, with a kind note, saying that the editor 
desires to hear from me again. He shall 


EXTRACTS FROM MY DIARY. 


263 


Mem. To write a supernatural story. I begin to 
believe in all manner of strange things. I have no 
doubt my poor mother appeared to me in that 
dream. Her death is what Fitzwalton alluded to in 
the letter which offended me. Was it not some 
mysterious power that led me from Harbourford to 
Lindford, past that manor-house, and showed me 

my dear Esther I have sent to Lady Somer- 

field, in a feigned handwriting, a beautiful copy of 
“Quarles,” and inscribed it, “From one to whom 
Lady Somerfield was very kind when the sender 
was poor and ill, and could not sing ‘ Robin Adair.’ ” 
Poor Kenny ! you have had some hard trials, and 
you have behaved tolerably well under them. There 
was one of your ancestors who fought the Saracens. 
He had a long, hard, miserable time of it ; but he 
was a soldier — wore mail and feathers. You are a 
soldier too, Kenny. “ Stand firm !” Remember the 
grand motto of the Kenricks. 

3Iay 10. — Have been too busy to write in my 
diary ; must discontinue it altogether soon. Should 

like to keep it a little while longer Have 

removed from Nixon’s rooms : the sight of poor 
Mitching unmanned me, and made me unfit for 
work. Esther is anxious to “tell everything” to 
Lady Somerfield before I see her, especially as 
Lady S. seems to have noticed that Esther has had 

a great many letters lately I have worked 

“ like any nigger.” Written two papers for Athe- 
niauj one is accepted ; offered my services to almost 


264 


CHRISTOPHEE KENRICK. 


every publisher, and got bright prospects of increas- 
ing work The other night played a little part 

at the theatre, company being short; everybody 
complimented me ; manager, for some reason, is 
anxious I should get up in Claude Melnotte ; am 
doing so ; very tinselly,, flashy language, but a fine 
play for all that ; and I confess I like it much .... 
Have written to my father, and sent him the Athe- 
nian. I hope it will touch him. The more inde- 
pendent I begin to feel in money matters, the more 
desirous I am that the sun should not go down on 
my father’s wrath : he is an old man. My poor 
mother — what would she have been like, I wonder, 
if her own nature had been allowed to develop itself ? 
A kind, considerate gentlewoman, I think ; but my 
father’s strong, firm will, entirely neutralized hers. 
He overawed her with his own severe nature. My 
mother must have been well brought up. Her 

father was a clergyman of Stoneysbire What 

on earth could there have been in my boyish con- 
duct to have estranged me so terribly from my 
parents ! If I ever had a son, it would give me the 
greatest possible delight to see his genius develop- 
ing, as if in its own kindred soil, amongst Border 
ballads and fairy tales, amongst books of plays and 
quaint old essays. I am sure I was not a bad boy ; 
therefore my miseries were undeserved punishments, 
unless they were to serve some good purpose which 

an all-wise Power had in view I have seen 

Emmy Wilton. I bought some new clothes, and 


EXTRACTS FROM MY DIARY. 


265 


called ’upon her at Dr. Sharpe’s. She refused to 
see me. I called again, and she came into the little 
fussy drawing-room, into which I was shown. We 
both looked nervously at each other. I put out my 
hand, she took it, and burst into tears : burst into 
tears, and sobbed as if her heart was breaking. 
I could not speak for some time. At last I said, 
“Don’t cry. Miss Wilton.” I did not know what 
else to say. By and by, when I had sat down beside 
her, with a hard portrait of Dr. Sharpe looking fix- 
edly at us, she said : 

“ Can you forgive me ? You know how I have 
been punished.” 

“Forgive you? Oh, yes!” I said. “I should 
never have forgiven you if I had lost Esther ; but 
I have not.” 

“ I tried my best to get her away from you. It 
was for her own good. I wished to see her rich.” 

“ Pray do not talk of that, Emmy ; I was in the 
wrong, though I did not know it at the time.” 

“ I thought you were, but I was too glad to get an 
opportunity to advance Mr. Howard’s suit. Esther 
seemed to give way, but she did not, and she would 
have died first.” 

“ The dear girl 1” I said. 

“We have all come down, you see, as Mrs. Nixon 
predicted — the fiend!” said Emmy, having over- 
come her tears and evidently determined not to give 
way again. “It is a grand triumph for our ene- 
mies ; but I don’t care for them. You are afraid, I 
12 


266 


CHBISTOPHEE KENEICK. 


see, to mention your friend, Tom Folgate; you 
needn’t be. I always doubted him. He was most 
emphatic, by the way, in denouncing your conduct. 
I don’t think I should have written so strongly to 
you, had it not been for him.” 

‘‘ And I thought he really loved me,” I said. 

“He loved nobody,” Emmy replied, her eyes 
flashing. “ You think I did not either, but you are 
mistaken. I did ; and I was proud of that man — 
proud of his strong limbs, proud of his commanding 
manner, proud of his ability. I should have been 
true to him to the last, and under all circumstances.” 

Her voice trembled, and there were very nearly 
more tears in her eyes. I put my hand tenderly 
upon her shoulder, and said — 

“ Emmy, let us be true friends ; brother and sis- 
ter—” 

“ Not brother and sister !” she exclaimed ; “ that 
means hate, not love !” 

“ Friends, then, Emmy !” 

“ Yes, friends,” she said, and I kissed her. 

***=K** * * 

Strong-minded though she be, that girl will fret 
her heart out about Tom Folgate. She loved him, 
and was proud of him. All her hopes centred in 
him ; now her future is as blank as mine would have 
been if I had lost Esther. 

May 14. — An article by Christopher Kenrick on 
“ The Drama,” has appeared in the London Stage 
newspaper, and the editor has written to the happy 


EXTKACTS FEOM MY DIARY. 


267 


writer thereof for more “ copy.” Bright and blessed 
sunshine ! And I am to see Esther at the end of 
the month. I may write as often as I like. She has 
“ told Lady Somerfield all !” Cator Man- 

ners tells me he has been talking with the Lindford 
Herald proprietors. They say their editor is a fool, 
and Mr. Manners has advised them to engage me^ 
“ It is very likely they may write to you,” he contin- 
ues ; “ they know nothing of newspaper work. 
Builders, by trade, who have been successful, they 
bought the Herald from Mitching’s trustees, and 
some other people have the bookselling business. 
The editor is a local man, an amateur architect, a 
political agent, and a conceited and ignorant ass. I 
shall make you an offer to stick to the stage ; but 
you can do what you think best. I shall only make 
one condition, and that is, that you play Mdnotte for 
me this month, and give me a fortnight’s notice 
whenever you leave.” “ My dear sir,” I said, “ there 
is my hand on it, and I shall forever hold myself 
your debtor.” 

3Iay 15. — The proprietors of the Herald have 
made me an offer, and I have given Manners notice. 
I am to conduct the paper in my own way. It is to 
be independent in politics. What a rush of good 
luck ! I am worth this day in hard cash, three 
pounds and ten shillings. I do not owe a farthing 
in the world. I have got my “ fiddle and things,” 
from Harbourford, and returned Abel Crockford his 
money. To crown all, my father has acknowledged 


268 


CHEISTOPHEB KENKICK. 


the receipt of my letter, and commended my article 
in the Athenian. To-night I am really happy. If it 
were not for those shadows of the past, coming up 
in black regiments to darken the sunshine, I should 
be perfectly happy.. At the same time, if it were not 
for these shadows I might not understand what hap- 
piness really is. Eochefoucault says “ it is a kind of 
happiness to know to what extent we may be un- 
happy.” I can fully appreciate the deep philosophy 
of that maxim, and it is equally true that one is 
happy by comparison with previous or contemplated 
miseries. “ To be good is to be happy,” according 
to one sage, whom I have encountered in books ; but 
that is only a partial truth ; to be good and yet be 
persecuted and misunderstood and thought bad, has 
something of misery in it ... . Mem. for a sketch 
or essay. “ The Miserable Good and the Happy 
Bad.” An opening for metaphysical discussion. 
What is good? What is happiness ? 

il/ay 16. — “ Julia Belmont will appear, for one 
week only, in a round of her famous characters 1” 
The engagement is to begin next week; and Mr. 
Manners tells me I must play Claude Melnotte to her 
Pauline. I reply that it is impossible. He reminds 
me of our agreement. Why can he be so absurd ? 
I ask. His leading man, I say, would never permit 
ifc. That gentleman’s engagement, I am informed, 
will be concluded the night before the “Lady of 
Lyons” is to be played, which will be the end of 
Miss Belmont’s week. His place will not be filled. 


EXTRACTS FROM MY DIARY. 


269 


because two stars join at Witliam for a month on 
circuit. I am to be announced as a distinguished 
amateur, “his first appearance on any stage.” 
Manners cannot think why I can object, is satisfied 
I shall make a great success, and that this will be 
an opening for me to a new and splendid career, 
despite my engagement at the Herald. He is satis- 
fied that I shall desert the press for the stage. If it 
were to play with any one else but Miss Belmont, I 
tell him, I would not object, and indeed should be 
glad of an opportunity to test my abilities. The 
manager is astounded beyond all expression ; 
thought I had a sneaking kindness for the lady ; 
felt he had been doing me a double service ; had 
thought more about me in the matter than himseK. 
.... Why am I persecuted by this woman ? On 
second thoughts, am I persecuted ? Let me be just 
to Miss Belmont as well as to myself. If I know 
anything of such matters, she is in love with me, or 
I am a vain fellow who ought to be kicked. Women 
do fall in love with men, and why not Julia Belmont 

with me ? Is this a double plot, this “ Lady 

of Lyons” scheme ? Did Gator Manners write and 
teU the lady I was here ? Or has she found me out 
through Abel Crockford? I would not risk the 
chance of annoying Esther or even Emmy again for 
all the gold of Peru. By the way, did any one ever 
see any Peruvian gold ? I never did. Oh, this love ! 
My days and nights are days and nights of longing 
to see Esther, to look into her dear eyes once more, 


270 


CHBISTOPHER KENRICK. 


to hear her sweet voice. Can it be possible that 
Julia Belmont should feel any such desire about me ? 
Me ! A poor, sallow-faced, melancholy beggar such 
as I am. The idea is absurd ; yet I have felt her 
hand tremble in mine, and seen her eye light up at 
my presence. Titania never saw Bottom's long ears 
and snout when she embraced him. Love is blind. 
If she do love a miserable wretch like Christopher 
Kenrick, I pity her. Then why do I not pity Esther ? 
That is different. "We are betrothed. We have * 
walked together hand in hand beneath the stars. 
We have heard the whisperings of that gentle river. 
We know each other’s innermost thoughts. We 
have sworn in our hearts to be true and faithful 

ever I must be as good as my word with 

Manners. Shall I tell him all ? All ? All what ? 
That I think Julia Belmont is in love with me, and 
I with another ? Absurd. Shall I see Emmy and 
ask her advice ? Or Esther ? No, I am not to see 
her until the end of the month. Why not explain 
myself to Miss Belmont ? And be snubbed, perhaps, 
for my condescension. 

3Iay 18. — Have written a silly but honest letter to 
Julia Belmont, explaining my position with regard to 
Mr. Cator Manners, but more particularly referring to 
my unalterable attachment to Esther Wilton. I 
hope I have done this in such a way that she shall 
not for a moment imagine that I know her own se- 
cret. It is absurd for me to say it even to myself 
that Julia Belmont is much attached to C. K. She 


EXTRACTS FROM MY DIARY. 


271 


thinks it was my pride that led me to leave Harbour- 
ford ; but she is a woman of the world, and able to 
conquer any wayside passion of this character. At 
all events, she will understand upon what terms we 

meet again How long the days seem that 

shut me out from Esther ! . . , . Cator Manners has 
been here, fuU of chat about Julia Belmont. She 
has told him many times that she would never marry. 
Why ? Did I not know, he asked ? ‘‘ The bar sin- 
ister, my friend, this is the miserable shadow on her 
life ; though hardly a soul knows about it, the legacy 
recently left to her is the death-gift of a repentant 
father.” Good heavens ! I exclaimed. Bah ! 
what does it matter ?” replied the manager. ‘‘ She is 
the most noble-hearted girl in the wide world.” . . . 
Mem. Delicately treated, this secret of Julia Bel- 
mont’s would make a fine story ; work out the sud- 
den discovery of her misfortune at an important and 
critical period of her history ; and trace the effect of 
the baneful truth on a highly sensitive and moral 
nature. Shop again — I am as bad as Ealstaff, turn- 
ing diseases to commodities ; but one must labor 
in one’s vocation. 

May 23. — Met Miss Belmont at rehearsal. She 
greeted me most cordially ; but I thought she 
seemed sad. I know she received my silly letter, 
though she never answered it. I must have ap- 
peared confused in my manner. This would be put 
down to the arduous part of Claude, which I had 
undertaken. Somehow I felt sorry for Miss Bel- 


272 


CHRISTOPHER KENRICK. 


mont, and yet this seemed to be presumptuous. She 
might marry a score of better fellows than me, if it 

pleased her I was perfect in the words, I did 

not attempt to act, though we arranged several 
special points. Cator Manners was delighted; he 
said I should make a name on the stage, and Miss 

Belmont praised my histrionic intelligence 

Courtesy compelled me to see the actress to her 
lodgings after rehearsal. Although she is rich. Miss 
Belmont has not changed her rooms. It recalled 
the past in a rush of strange sensations to see that 
little sitting-room once more. There it was, as of 
old, — the square piano, the fluffy sofa, the wicker 
chair, the baize-covered table. Just the slightest 
attempt had been made to remove the general littery 
character of the room, but this only seemed to bring 
out the ordinary features of the place in stronger 
rehef. I see you remember it,” said Miss Belmont, 
looking round the room as she flung herself care- 
lessly down upon the sofa, with a palpable effort to 
appear cool and indifferent. ‘‘ Shall I ever forget 
it?” I replied. ‘^Yes, yes,” she said, suddenly. 
“ You have already forgotten that poor girl in the 
curl papers, who told you to kiss her hand at part- 
ing.” Then the great actress, the rich worldly lady, 
buried her head in the apoplectic pillows of the old 
chintz sofa, and cried like a disappointed child. 
The situation was most embarrassing. I kneeled 
beside her and kissed her hand again. She looked 
up at me tenderly, like a mother might, and said. 


EXTRACTS FROM MY DIARY. 


273 


“ Don’t be angry with me, Kenny, it is all over now ; 
let us be good to each other, and I will try and love 
Esther Wilton for your sake.” .... And this woman 
could take her own part in the great world, fight her 
own way, and enact tragedy on the stage with almost 
masculine force. 

May 24. — It was a brilliant house, and never did 
woman look Pauline better than Julia Belmont. If 
my dresser is to be believed, Claude was worthy of 
her. Manners sent a pint of champagne into my 
dressing-room. I drank it almost at a draught. 
With an effort of will I threw my whole soul into 
the part. I was Claude Melnotte, and Julia my 
Pauline^ my Esther, my love. “ Wealth to the mind, 
wealth to the heart, high thoughts, bright dreams, 
the hope of fame, the ambition to be worthier 
Esther.” The foot-lights seemed to blaze up into 
my eyes, the audience was a small sea of faces and 
colors : I saw nothuig distinctly ; but I felt the im- 
pulse of some hidden power. I was “ called” with 
enthusiasm at the end of the second act, and went 
on with Miss Belmont ; but I saw nothing. Man- 
ners came to my dressing-room, and almost wept for 
joy. “ You will be a great man, Kenny.” A thrill 
of sympathy ran through the house as J ulia Belmont 
spoke those tender words to the disguised Mdnotte, 
in the last act : 

“ Tell liim, for years I never nursed a tRouglit 
That was not his ; that on his wandering way, 

12 * 


274 


CHEISTOPHER KENRICK. 


Daily and nightly, poured a mourner’s prayers. 

Tell him even now that I would rather share 
His lowliest lot, — walk by his side, an outcast ; 

Work for him, beg with him, — live upon the light 
Of one kind smile from him, than wear the crown 
The Bourbon lost !” 

Great, hot tears rolled down the woman’s cheeks as 
she uttered the speech line by line. They stung me 
for a moment like daggers ; but all my heart was in 
my eyes with sympathy, when, looking up at me with 
what I regarded as a strange smile of real resigna- 
tion, she said — 


“ Shall I shrink 

From him who gave me birth ? — withhold my hand, 

And see a parent perish ? Tell him this. 

And say — that we shall meet in heaven !” 

The curtain went down amidst thunders of applause. 
The call for Belmont and Claude was tremendous. 
. . . . Whilst I was dressing to go home, Cator 
Manners told me it was the largest and most fashion- 
able house he had ever seen in Lindford. “Lord 
Duffeldt and a party were in the stage box ; Sir 
Manfred Carter was in the dress circle, and Lady 
Somerfield, with a select party.” “Lady Somer- 
field !” I said. “ Yes, and you were too much for 
one of her lot; a young lady, the prettiest girl I 
ever saw, nearly fainted, and had to go out into the 
lobby.” I listened with breathless attention now. 
“ I got water for her, and when the lady, who went 


EXTEACTS FROM MY DIARY. 


275 


out with her, turned away for a moment, she asked 
me in the sweetest way if Christopher Kenrick was 
not the name of the actor?” “And you said?” I 
exclaimed. “ That it was,” he replied. “ A curse 
upon you. Manners,” I shouted, hurling the prince’s 
hat and feathers at his feet, “you are my evil 
genius.” ... I have apologized to Manners ; how 
should he have known any better? And what 
wrong did he do after all ? Why should I shrink at 
Esther discovering her love in Melnotte ? But I will 
send a note by messenger to Lady Somerfield’s, and 
follow me in his footsteps. 

It must be done this afternoon. Hark, 

The princess comes to hunt here in the park, 

And in her train there is a gentle lady ; 

When tongues speak sweetly, then they name her name, 
And Esther they do call her : ask for her; 

And to her white hand see thou do commend 
This seal’d-up counsel. 



CHAPTEE XXVI. 


CRITICISM AND GOSSIP. — A CHAPTER BY THE WAY. 

From Edinburgh to Durham. The latter is an 
out-of-the-way city, but picturesque beyond descrip- 
tion. By the advice of Bess we have taken it en 
routes and are staying here for a week. We had not 
been in the place an hour before Father Ellis called 
upon us. 

“What am I doing here? Visiting a brother 
cleric. Why should I not make holiday as well as 
other people ?” said the reverend gentleman, his eyes 
sparkling and his cheeks glowing with health. 

The Eeverend George Ellis is a handsome man. 
Tall and portly, with gray hair and a white beard, 
he looks like a patriarch; but there is a youthful 
twinkle in his eye, and his full, ruddy cheeks have 
all the glow of robust middle-age. He is not more 
than forty-five, and yet we treat him as if he were a 
sage of seventy. 

“I am delighted to see you, Father,” I say ; “you 
shall clear up for us that point about the blood on 
the stairs at Holyrood. We are fresh from Edin- 
burgh, and full of historical crotchets.” 

“Eiddle me no historical riddles,” says the Fa- 


CEITICISM AND GOSSIP. 


277 


ther, promptly ; “ I am out for a holiday, I tell you. 
Let us go and see Finchale Abbey, and talk of 
Bede.” 

“ Yes, that is the best thing to do,” says Bess. 

Mrs. Kenrick is out with Cissy. They are at the 
cathedral service. Bess, the Father, and myself go 
for a long walk. "We are all full of chat and gossip. 
I never remember the Father being so bright and 
lively. He called the Bev. Paul Felton a bad name, 
and said he was to be married that very day. I am 
thankful there is no prospect of my son Tom 
encountering him. It would be most reprehensible 
if Tom should pull his nose ; the boy is too im- 
pulsive to remember what is due to a clergyman, in 
respect of his cloth. Tom is in London, preparing 
for his Indian journey. 

In the evening after tea we are quite a happy 
family party in the northern city, and this is our 
talk. 

Father FUis. I like the story. It is good, hon- 
est work, — no sensationalism, no murders, no big- 
amy. 

Myself. Wait for the end ; you do not know what 
is coming. The subtle novelist may be reserving 
his blue fire for a grand flare-up at the last. 

Father Ellis. Does Mrs. Kenrick still object to the 
story ? 

Mrs. Kenrick. Yes ; I am paying the penalty of 
admiring my husband’s genius. 

Father Ellis. You are afraid the Hallow folk will 


278 


CHEISTOPHER KENRICK. 


not like you so well because C. K. had to fight his 
own way, and got stained a little with the dust and 
mud of the battle. 

Mrs, Kenrick, My thoughts were for the children, 
Mr. Ellis. Christopher, in my mind, is too high 
above the world and its pettiness for me to care 
what Hallow thinks of him. Hallow and Hallow- 
shire ought to be proud that he condescends to hve 
in the county. 

Father Ellis, Bravo ! Spoken like a true wife ! 
And Hallow is proud of him, is it not, Miss Bessie ? 

Bess, I hope so. We are. 

Father Ellis, We are, indeed. 

Myself, I wish I were worthier your pride. It is 
pardonable vanity for my wife and children to be 
proud of me; but I have done nothing, nothing. 
The standard of excellence, which I raised for my- 
self throughout life, towers up mountains higher 
than any point I have reached, or ever shall reach. 
I am content, and therefore happy, as who would 
not be with a good wife, a reasonable income, and 
children that are blessings ? 

Father Ellis, “ Happy man be his dole !” I like 
those extracts from your diary, sir. Genuine, I sup- 
pose? 

Myself, You are too much of a gentleman. Father 
ElHs, to doubt my word. If I were to say No,” 
you would be puzzled ; if I said “ Yes,” you might 
not be quite satisfied even then. 

Cissy (interrupting). I knew they were colored, as 


CRITICISM AND GOSSIP. 


279 


you call it. I told mother so when I found her 
actually crying over one particular entry. 

Mrs. Kenrick. Cissy, dear, do not be so impulsive ; 
you will be as bad as your brother. 

Bessie. In^ your early literary career, father, did 
you ever meet Thackeray ? 

Mysdf. Yes ; and he gave me an encouraging 
word of advice : he was struggling himself in those 
days. I remember travelling with Etty to York one 
day after I had been introduced to Thackeray. The 
author would, I fancy, sooner have been the artist. 
Etty was telling me how he picked up his model for 
Joan of Arc. The picture had been waiting for a 
woman’s face, and he encountered the right one 
accidentally in Westminster Abbey. His niece fol- 
lowed the lady home, found out her address, and 
Etty painted her by the consent of herseK and 
father, a doctor of London. 

Father Ellis. He painted rapidly. 

Myself. Very. I once saw him at work. 

Cissy. You will tell us something about your art 
studies, and your successful and happy days? Your 
troubles seem never-ending. 

Myself. Happiness, as a rule, is not interesting in 
print. The repose of success wants incident. 

Cissy. What become of Tom Eolgate and Mrs. 
Hitching ? 

' Myself. Ah, that is a sad story to come. 

Mrs. Kenrick. Poor Hitching ! I remember see- 
ing him myself, a w^eak, maudlin old gentleman, 


280 


CHEISTOPHER KENRICK. 


with wandering gray eyes. That woman deserved 
all the dreadful things which could befall her ! 

Father FlUs, Not said with your usual charity, 
Mrs. Kenrick. 

3Irs, Kenricic. There are bounds to, charity, Mr. 
Ellis. 

Father Ellis. True, true ; let us change the sub- 
ject. Who was it that said Durham looked as if it 
had been down a coal pit, and had forgotten to wash 
its face afterward ? 

Bess. Very good. 

Father Ellis. No ; I think it was Leigh Hunt, 
Miss Bess. 

Myself. A very weak joke. Father. 

Father Ellis. Which ? My repartee ? I have been 
taking a lesson from Happy Thoughts. 

3Iysdf. Unhappy Thoughts would be a good sub- 
ject, — the melancholy thoughts of a man of genius. 

Father Ellis. Omnes ingeniosos melancholicos. You 
would have him write the work only during his mel- 
ancholy moments. A good idea. By the way, when 
you write a story, do you plan it out and arrange all 
the incidents beforehand ? 

3Iyself. Sometimes. 

Father Ellis. Your characters master you now and 
then, and will have their own way ; you confess as 
much in one of your books. 

3Iyself. Indeed ? I do not remember it. 

Father Ellis. I have heard other novelists say so. 
It reminds one of Dry den’s confession that a rhyma 


CRITICISM AND GOSSIP. 


281 


often helped him to an idea. Somebody says that 
language, the servant of thought, often becomes its 
master. I have experienced that in writing sermons. 

Mrs. Kenrick. Forgive me for interrupting so in- 
teresting a topic, Mr. Ellis, by saying good-night. 
Don’t imagine I wish you to go. Christopher is sure 
to sit up an hour longer yet. 
******** 

Christopher did sit up an hour longer ; in good 
sooth, he was not in bed until the cathedral bell had 
tolled out the hour of two in the morning, and all 
owing to the most astonishing proposition of Father 
Ellis, which is duly set forth in the following com- 
plete note of our conversation, opened, as soon as 
the women were gone, by my reverend companion. 

Father Ellis. Kenrick, we are old friends, and true 
friends. 

Myself. Is that a new discovery ? 

Father EUis. I have a plan for bringing us still 
closer together, or separating us perhaps forever. 

Myself. You speak in riddles. Father. 

Father Ellis. Call me not Father. I am in no wise 
entitled to so venerable a distinction, either by age 
or position ; and just now I have no wish for the 
special honors of age. 

3Iyself. I hope the whisky has not disagreed with 
you, old friend ? 

Father Ellis. Nothing has disagreed with me, nor 
is anything hkely to do so under your Mahogany 
Tree, as Thackeray calls it,— a capital song that, by 


282 


CHEISTOPHER KENRICK. 


the way ; one of the Mayhews sung it amongst some 
friends of mine whom I used to visit in town. 

Myself. Indeed ; you were quite a buck in your 
young days, Father. 

Father Ellis. No ; but I was in a good literary 
set ; have dined often at the Johnson Club, and the 
Garrick, when it was in its old quarters ; knew 
Thackeray — one of the most charming conversation- 
alists I ever met, — and Macready, whom Forster, 
of the Guild of Literature and Art set, used to imi- 
tate. I once spent a day with Tennyson ; I have 
seen Lord Brougham in a passion ; and heard Dizzy 
talk sarcastically of the Conservative press ; I have 
written for the Quarterlies ; and 

Myself. And write still, for that matter ; but you 
had something of special importance to speak about, 
when you reminded me that we are old friends and 
true friends. 

Father Ellis. Iliad; and I never in my life found it 
so difficult to say what I wish to say, and must say. 

Myself. Out with it, old friend ; I am sure it is 
nothing that will disgrace the Church or yourself. 

Father Ellis. Or you, I hope. It is this, sir : I 
want your permission to offer my hand to your 
eldest daughter, Bess. 

Myself. What ! Why you’re drunk, Ellis. 

Father Ellis. Not at all, my dear boy ; not at all. 
I’m in love, not in liquor. 

Myself. In love! Excuse my laughing. Father. 
And does Bess know of this ? 


CEITICISM AND GOSSIP. 


283 


Father Ellis. She does ; we have talked it over 
any time this twelvemonth. 

Mysdf. Father Ellis, is that right? Ought you 
not to have spoken to me before ? 

Father Ellis. I would have done so ; but Bess ob- 
jected. She said you would treat it as a joke ; and, 
by Jupiter, she is right ! Not that I see anything to 
laugh at. 

Myself. Well, perhaps there is nothing to laugh 
at ; only it is a very odd notion for Bess and you. 

Father Ellis. Why, why, my friend ? 

Myself. Bess has long been looked upon as the old 
maid of the family, and you as the Father Confessor. 

Father Ellis. Old maid! What call you old? 
She is only thirty; and I am — well, say ten years 
older. Why shall we not marry? We can afford it. 

Myself. I have no objection, friend ; but be sure 
you know your own mind. 

Father Ellis. Nay, Kenrick, do not laugh at me. 
Our marriage, if it be not a hot love-match, like 
your own, will be founded in esteem and respect — a 
union of dear friends, who have confidence and trust 
in each other, and who will be helpmates and com- 
panions in a higher and nobler sense, perhaps, than 
is generally meant or understood by those who 
marry in the hey-day of youth. 

Myself. I laugh no longer, friend. You have my 
full permission to offer your hand to Bess, and a 
father’s best wishes and prayers for your happiness. 

Father Ellis. My dear Kenrick, I thank you, 


284 


CHKISTOPHER KENEICK. 


heartily. Supposing Bess has really made up her 
mind, may we fix an early day ? 

■Myself. What do you call an early day ? 

Father Ellis. This day month. 

Myself. Consult the women on that point, — con- 
sult the women. Good-night, Ellis, good-night. 



CHAPTEK XXVII. 


I HAVE A ROMANTIC AND INTERESTING ADVENTURE. 

I MET my messenger returning. He looked woe- 
begone and miserable. , That was, however, nothing 
new, it was his customary look. It suited my half- 
serious, half-stagey fancy just then, to associate him 
with Gaspar, 

“It reached her, and was returned to me with 
blows. Dost hear, Mdnotte ? with blows ? Death ! 
Are we slaves still, that we are to be thus dealt 
with, we peasants ?” 

No, that is not what he said, and I did not re-read 
my letter in a theatrical attitude. 

“ I gave the letter to the lady,” he said, “ and the 
letter-carrier gave her another at the same time. 
She was walking with a gentleman.” 

“ Yes, yes,” I said, anxiously. 

“ ‘ Excuse me,’ she said to the gentleman as was 
looking awful sweet upon her ; and then she opens 
yours, and then she opens the ’tother, which last 
was a long letter, and it took her ever so long to run 
her pretty eyes through it.” 

“WeU, what then?” 

“ She says, as she gave me a shilling, she says, 
‘ Tell Mr. Kenrick that I have just heard from Miss 
Julia Belmont, and I will write to him by post and 


286 


CHEISTOPHER KENRICK. 


tlien slie looked at the swell that was walking with 
her, as much as to say, ‘ Put that in your pipe and 
smoke it.’ ” 

“ Is that all ? What was the gentleman like ?” 

“Like hisself, I suppose. I thought you might 
want to know who he was ; so I axed.” 

“ You are a good fellow,” I said. 

“ Thankee,” replied my messenger ; “ it was young 
Squire Howard.” 

“ Thank you, my friend, you may go home now. 
Call at my lodgings, and say I may not be there 
again until to-morrow. On your way to the theatre 
in the morning, see if there are any letters for me. 
If there are, bring them to yonder public. You see 
it, just at the bend, past Lady Somerfield’s.” 

“ I knows it ; all right, sir.” 

“ And I know it too,” I said to myself, thinking of 
that day when, penniless and hungry, I wondered 
how much it would pay for “ Eobin Adair.” 

There must be some mystery here, it seemed to 
me. Were all my gorgeous plans of happiness 
once more coming to an ending? Was this visit 
of Howard to my dear girl the result of last night’s 
business? Perhaps he was at the theatre I’eady to 
take advantage of Esther’s sudden and just jealousy. 
I hated Julia Belmont for a moment in my heart 
then, and it was well for him and for me that Cator 
Manners was not within ear-shot. Was this fellow 
Howard at Lady Somerfield’s for the purpose of 
making another proposal for Esther’s hand ? Was 


A ROMANTIC ADVENTURE. 


287 


it all a plot, or what? Had Esther deceived me 
from the beginning ? No ; the very thought was an 
outrage. There could be nothing but truth in those 
dear eyes that used to look into mine in the old days 
at Lindford. She had just received a letter from 
Julia Belmont ! What did that mean? There was 
evidently treachery somewhere. I congratulated 
myself that an explanation must be close at hand. 

I walked on with my troubled thoughts until I 
came in sight of that ivy-covered house which I had 
blessed many a time in my prayers. Evening shad- 
ows were beginning to fall upon the tender-looking 
landscape. My first impulse was to walk straight 
into the house and ask for Miss Wilton. My next 
impulse, prompted by an unworthy jealous thought, 
was to act the spy. “ And be arrested, perhaps, for 
trespassing,” suggested Caution ; “ why not bribe the 
servants ?” Opportunely there came out of the house 
a man who evidently had authority in the servants’ 
hall. He was showing out a brother butler, and he 
stood at the gate for a few minutes after his friend 
had gone round the turning in the road. 

I did not offer his magnificence of the kitchen a 
bribe ; but when he had strutted back again, I qui- 
etly entered the shrubbery and crept close to the 
drawing-room window, where two people were talk- 
ing. I recognized the soft voice of one at once ; it 
was Lady Somerfield’s. 

I wonder you have not more pride, Howard,” 
said the lady ; “your branch of the family belongs to 


288 


CHEISTOPHEE KENEICK. 


the tamest of the Somerfield lot, or you would have 
stood upon your dignity long since. I am very sorry 
that I ever introduced the girl here. Your elo- 
quence ought not to have conquered my own judg- 
ment in the matter.” 

“ I know I am a great fool, Lady Somerfield ; but 
I cannot help it.” 

“ Fool ! Your infatuation is simple lunacy. The 
young lady’s coolness is certainly not fiattering to 
you.” 

‘‘ It is that which stimulates my love. I could 
make any sacrifice for her, and I think my affection 
would be pure and lasting.” 

“ Eom antic youth ! And has she refused you 
again, after last night ? ” 

“ I have not yet given her an opportunity of re- 
fusing. If these were not such prosy days I would 
carry her off, my lady ; I would compromise her rep- 
utation, and then honorably marry her.” 

“ Fie, fie! ” said Lady Somerfield. 

“ You infernal scoundrel 1” I said, between my 
teeth, and it was happiness to me at that moment to 
think that I might enjoy the blessing of a moment’s 
danger for Esther’s sake. That dramatic business 
of the previous night had got into my brain a little. 
Oh, to hear Esther cry, “ Help ! Eenrick, have I no 
protector ?” Would I spare the fellow as Melnotte 
spared Beauseant ? I clutched a laurel branch and 
squeezed the leaves almost into pulp. 

“ It was a cruel device that theatrical business ; 


A EOMANTIO ADVENTUKE. 


289 


but how well the young man played !” said the lady. 

“ Wretched pleb !” said the gentleman. 

“ And yet you are in competition with him for this 
girl, penniless as she is, and without even the pride 
of blood and position on her side ; and I am weak 
enough to help you in your folly. Cousin, this non- 
sense must end at once.” 

“ It shall,” said the gentleman. 

There was another voice now. It was Esther’s. 
How my heart beat ! I crept so close to the win- 
dow that I was nearly in the room. 

“ Lady Somerfield,” said Esther, in a voice trem- 
bling with emotion, “ I must go home, if you please. 
I have taken the liberty to order your carriage.” 

‘‘ Indeed, Miss Wilton ! What can have happen- 
ed ?” said the lady. 

“ I have learnt that it was through Mr. Howard 
that you were so good as to give me a home in your 
house ; you were cognizant of what he is pleased to 
call his love for me. I despise him ! He was mean 
enough to take part in a weak, silly plot to injure 
me in the estimation of Mr. Kenrick, and to make 
me think ill of him. Mr. Howard knew of this per- 
formance last night, and was permitted to come to 
your box in order that Mr. Kenrick might see 
him with me. Mr. Kenrick was induced to play that 
part with that lady to confirm my stupid jealousy. 
I know everything. Here is a letter of explanation 
from Miss Belmont, who is engaged to be married 
to Mr. Cator Manners.” 


13 


290 


CHBISTOPHER KENRICK. 


Esther was quite out of breath with her little speech, 
and I crept close within the curtains, my heart beat- 
ing wildly and my brain in a whirl of excitement. 

You interpret events so strangely,” said Mr. 
Howard, a little huskily. 

“ I fear there is a great deal of truth in Miss Wil- 
ton’s interpretation of events,” said Lady Somer- 
field, calmly ; “ and I am very sorry indeed that I am 
mixed up in so weak and foolish an intrigue. I can 
only say for my cousin that he has a sincere admi- 
ration for you, and would think himself a blessed, 
happy creature for life if you would consent to marry 
him. It is true that upon his representations to me, 
and the late Lord Somerfield knowing and respect- 
ing your father, that I was induced to see Mrs. Wil- 
ton, and offer you a home here ; and I have so high 
a regard for you, Esther, that I shall be very sorry 
indeed if you should really leave me.” 

‘‘ I am deeply sensible of your ladyship’s kind- 
ness,” said Esther, ‘‘ but I should be unjust to my- 
self, to your ladyship, and to another, if I remained 
here an hour longer.” 

I was surprised to hear my darling speak with 
such spirit, and at this moment it was in my mind 
to rush from my hiding-place and say that I should 
be unjust to them all if I remained in hiding a mo- 
ment longer. It would have been a good point to 
make. I felt half ashamed at being a listener ; but 
what I heard gave me so much happiness that I 
would not interrupt the dialogue. 


A ROMANTIC ADVENTURE. 


291 


“ Miss Wilton, yon have my consent to take yonr 
own course. It is ten miles to Fleetborough ; you 
will startle your mother by arriving at ten o’clock 
at night, and without previous notice.” 

“ Pardon me. Lady Somerfield, I must go ; under 
all the circumstances I think there is no other 
course open for me.” 

“Will you permit me to say. Lady Somerfield,” 
said Mr. Howard, “that I am deeply grieved that 
you should be subject to any annoyance on my 
account. And I need not assure Miss Wilton that 
I would not in any way have offended her for the 
world.” 

“ Thank you, Mr. Howard, I only wish for Lady 
Somerfield’s consent to go home.” 

“ You have it, Esther ; but you cannot go alone.” 

“If Miss Wilton would honor me to that extent, 
Fleetborough is only a little out of my way, and I 
could see her home. I should accept her condescen- 
sion as a token of forgiveness for any unhappiness 
I may have caused her, and I shall be happy to be 
the bearer of any message from Lady Somerfield to 
Mrs. Wilton.” 

It was the work of a moment. All the subtle, 
designing cowardliness of that little speech crowded 
into my understanding. My love for Esther, my 
joy at her faithfulness, my admiration of her 
womanly spirit, and my romantic indiscretion hur- 
ried me into a rash but dramatic situation. Parting 
the curtains that hung down over the half-opened 


292 


CHRISTOPHEE KENKICK. 


folding windows, I entered the room, and, bowing to 
Lady Somerfield most respectfully, said — 

“ Perhaps Miss Wilton would prefer to have me 
for her companion to Pleetborough.” 

“ Oh, my dear Christopher !” said Esther, throw- 
ing herself into my arms, and beginning to sob, all 
her womanly fortitude giving way when it was no 
longer needed. 

“A very dramatic incident, and prettily done,” 
said Lady Somerfield, with all her calm self-pos- 
session. 

“ Confounded impertinence !” said Mr. Howard, 
whom I met now face to face for the first time in 
my life. 

He was my own height, a well-looking gentleman 
of about thirty, with light brown hair, blue eyes, 
thin, firm lips, and lank, weak whiskers. 

“We will settle our little matters of account when 
there are no ladies present,” I said, with a glance of 
challenge and defiance at Howard. 

“ Puppy !” said the gentleman. 

“Pie!” said Lady Somerfield; “the actor will 
prove the greater gentleman of the two, cousin, if 
you are not careful.” 

Lady Somerfield seemed to enjoy the scene, as if 
it were a stage rehearsal done specially for her 
edification. 

“We shall meet again,” said Mr. Howard, striding 
out of the room. 


A ROMANTIC ADVENTURE. 


293 


“ Brava !” said Lady Somerfield, in a sharp, quick 
way, gently clapping her hands. “Let the drop- 
scene go down ; it is a very effective tableau.” 

Then putting her hand gently upon Esther’s 
shoulder, she said — 

“ And now, young lady, between these two lovers 
we must be careful, or you may find yourself without 
one at all. You shall not go home to-night. I will 
take you to your mother’s house myself in the morn- 
ing ; and there Mr. Kenrick can meet us. I charge 
you, sir,” turning to me, “ not to interfere with my 
cousin, Mr. Howard. I will be his surety. The age 
of duelling is over ; and we can have no fighting, sir, 
amongst gentlemen, which does not contemplate 
gentlemanly weapons.” 

As she spoke, her ladyship gradually wound her 
arm round Esther, and separated her from me. 

“There, Mr. Kenrick, now we must say adieu, 
until to-morrow. Mr. Howard will leave the house 
when you are clear of the neighborhood ; and I will 
pledge you my honor for the safe and happy keep- 
ing of Miss Wilton. We shall leave here at eleven 
in the morning for Fleetborough, where I shall 
place the lady in the hands of her mother.” 

“ Are you satisfied, Esther ?” I asked. 

“ Yes,” she said, looking at me in the kind, loving 
fashion of our Lindford days. 

“ Sir, I rely upon you with regard to my deluded 
cousin Howard,” said Lady Somerfield. 


294 


CHKISTOPHER KENEICK. 


Lady Somerfield, I rely upon you with regard to 
my dear Miss Wilton, and I offer you my abject 
apologies for a most uncourteous entrance into your 
house.” 

Her ladyship bowed with graceful ease, and smil- 
ing her forgiveness, pointed to the open door. I 
took my leave. 

If this had been a mere story for the libraries — 
a romance of incident, and not a veritable history — 
I should probably have made Esther Wilton leave 
Lady Somerfield’s that night, in her ladyship’s 
carriage. On the way, Mr. Howard would have 
attempted to carry her off, and 0. K. would suddenly 
have turned up to rescue her. Or I might have 
preferred to interrupt the conversation just as I 
really did, and when I left the house I could have 
watched it all night, and prevented an attempt at 
abduction as the bell was tolling the solemn hour of 
twelve. Better, still, perhaps, in a dramatic sense, I 
might, during my watch, have witnessed a burglary 
at Lady Somerfield’s, and seized the robber at a 
critical juncture, only to discover in him one of my 
early characters in the romance who had gone to 
the bad. Fancy, for instance, Tom Folgate turned 
robber! He may come even to worse grief than 
that. 

But this is of course a true history, and I must 
therefore adhere to the regular course of events. 
When I had left the house, the sun had gone 'Sown, 


A ROMANTIC ADVENTURE. 


295 


and it was nearly dark. I liid myself once more 
amongst tlie laurels, determining not to leave the 
place until Mr. Howard had departed. In about 
an hour a horse was brought to the front door, Mr. 
Howard got on his back, and in a few minutes I 
heard the last sound of the animal’s clattering hoofs 
on the hard highway. 



CHAPTEK XXVIII. 


“this day shall be a loye-day.” 

Eleetbokough is badly named ; it is not fleet in 
any respect. Even its river is slow and lazy, creep- 
ing through the town and under the bridges as if 
there were no sea waiting for it beyond the great, 
wide marshes. Fleet ! nothing is fleet here : even 
the air is sluggish, and the church-bells are slow- 
sounding, dreamy things. Sparrows go about the 
streets in a confidential way, and pigeons flop down 
upon you, as if they are assured by long experience 
that nobody will take the trouble to molest them. 
The streets slumber, whilst contemplative shop- 
keepers stand at their doors and look on. Yet the 
clerks in the Proctor’s offices had sufficient anima- 
tion left amongst them to look at me with surprise 
when I made inquiries about marriage licenses, as 
if they perceived the shadow of some good joke in a 
person taking the trouble to get married. 

The weather was hot. Perhaps that made a 
difference; but it was hot on both my visits to 
Fleetborough. I do not for a moment refer to the 
listless, drowsy, dreamy character of the town as a 
reflection upon the place. By no means. I loved it 
for these somnolent characteristics. There was 


297 


“THIS DAY SHALL BE A LOVE-DAY.” 

sometliing soothing in the quiet air of the town. I 
felt as if I had taken, with it, an opiate which would 
bring rest and pleasant dreams. But I loved it most 
for the dear sake of Esther Wilton, whom I met at 
her mother’s house in the afternoon of the day 
upon which Lady Somerfield had brought her 
home. 

Mrs. Wilton had betaken herself to the retire- 
ment of a pleasant cottage in Fleetborough, and 
Miss Barbara resided with her. The other “ meg,” 
the thin and dainty Priscilla, remained at Lindford 
to assist her aunt in training the minds of forty 
young ladies who were fortunate enough to be 
pupils at “ The Seminary for the Daughters of Gen- 
tlemen, Uphill, Lindford.” 

Miss Barbara received me. She jerked a how- 
do-you-do into my face, and asked me to sit down, 
in the same breath. She looked red and rosy : the 
crows’ feet about her eyes were pink and streaky, 
like the lines in winter apples. 

“ Has Miss Esther come home ?” I asked. 

“ Yes,” said Barbara ; “ she has.” 

“ Is Mrs. Wilton at home ?” 

“ Yes,” said the elder “ meg ;” “ she is.” 

“ Can I see her ?” 

“ Yes” (in the same jerky fashion) ; “ you can.” 

“ Will you show me to her?” 

“ Yes,” she said, opening a door close at hand ; 
“ there she is.” 

Mrs. Wilton was sitting by the window in a little 
13 * 


298 


CHKISTOPHEE KENRICK. 


parlor overlooking a small garden. A woodbine 
which had climbed up to the window-sill sent forth 
a dull, sluggish perfume, which was almost painfully 
• sweet. 

‘‘ I hope you are well, Mrs. "Wilton ?*’ I said, taking 
her hand. 

“ Better than I have been,” said the old lady, who 
did not seem to be altered in the least; “better, 
considering all the trouble I’ve had.” 

I was determined not to delay what I had come 
prepared to say about Esther. 

“ It is a long time now since I first spoke to you 
about marrying Esther,” I said, with an abruptness 
that seemed to make the old lady much more wake- 
ful than she was when I first entered. 

“ Yes,” she said, inquiringly. 

“ I was a boy then, a foolish, presumptuous boy, 
perhaps, in those days. I am a man now, and with 
more than a man’s common experience. If Esther 
is willing to marry me at once, have you any ob- 
jection to our union ?” 

“ You are so very sudden. I am sure I should be 
the last to — ” 

And then she wept, just as she had done at Lind- 
ford years before. 

“ My husband was nothing like so old as you — I 
mean my first husband ; and I don’t know that we 
were too young, though it is always time enough to 
begin troubles. You know what losses I have had, 
and all through being too good to my children, they 


299 


‘‘this day shall be a love-day.” 

say ; but wbat is a mother to do when her only son 
asks her for what is his own?” 

Mrs. "Wilton wept copiously as she contemplated 
her difficulties, and just at the conclusion of her last 
outburst, Miss Barbara, without the slightest warn- 
ing, came and bumped herself down in a chair close 
to her mother. This disconcerted me for a moment ; 
but I ignored the lady ; I continued my proposition, 
as though she had not been present. 

“ My income, Mrs. Wilton,” I said, “ is now suffi- 
cient to enable me to give your daughter a home at 
least equal to the one she will leave ; and I need not, 
I hope, say that I have no mercenary feelings with 
regard to this marriage.” 

“ Esther will have a thousand pounds,” said Bar- 
bara, fiercely, “ some day ; and five hundred down 
on her wedding-day.” 

“ Which I shall be happy to hand over to Mrs. 
Wilton for her own benefit,” I said, returning the 
“ meg’s” defiant gaze. 

“You think I hate you, I suppose,” she said, 
quickly, crossing her arms ; “ but I don’t.” 

“ I do not think anything about it,” I said. 

“You are sure, eh? Don’t make any mistake. 
I admire you. Mother !” 

“ Yes, Barbara,” said Mrs. Wilton. 

“ Let Mr. Christopher Kenrick have your daugh- 
ter Esther.” 

“ I am sure I have no objection, if it is for her 
DWH happiness,” said the old lady. 


300 


CHRISTOPHER KENRIOK. 


Of course it is for her own happiness,” said Miss 
Barbara, still preserving the same defiant expression 
of countenance. 

“I thought it was all off between them,” said 
Mrs. Wilton, looking at her daughter, whilst her 
hands wandered to the leaves of a plant that was 
growing on a table near the window. 

“So it was, but not through him,” Barbara re- 
plied. “ He’s a brave, honest gentleman, and you 
should be proud of such a son-in-law.” 

Barbara rose as she spoke, and coming over to 
me, said — “There!” very sharply, and offered me 
her hand, which I shook very heartily. 

“ I don’t like you, for all that,” she said, as grimly 
as ever; “but I admire constancy, honesty, and 
courage.” 

“Why, you always used to say, Barbara, that 
Squire Howard was as good a match as if Esther 
married a prince,” said Mrs. Wilton, reproachfully, 
“and nothing was too bad to say against Mr. 
Kenrick.” 

“ Oh 1” jerked out the “ meg,” “ never mind that.” 

“ I am sure I only wish for the welfare and happi- 
ness of Esther. Nobody would believe as she could 
have had Lady Somerfield’s cousin ; and I am sure 
it was most condescending of him to offer her mar- 
riage, — and he so rich and handsome,” said Mrs. 
Wilton, in a complaining tone, and rocking herself 
in her chair. 

“Handsome!” said Barbara. “I don’t know 


“this day shall be a love-day.” 301 

where his beauty is: his money is mostly in the 
funds.” 

“What a blessing it would have been to the 
family, for him to have married into it ! — he could 
have helped us in our troubles, and would ; and 
Lady Somerfield said herself as he was mad in love. 
I’m sure there is nothing but crosses and trials and 
afflictions in this world.” 

Upon which reflection Mrs. Wilton wept fresh 
tears, and I expected every moment that she would 
revoke her consent to my marriage with Esther. 
If she had done so, I would have married Esther 
without it, supposing my darling had been willing ; 
but that might not have been so easy, as I found 
afterward, when, she being a minor, I had to make 
affidavit and swear that I had her mother’s consent 
to our union. 

“ This is childish, mother,” said Barbara. “ The 
girl will have nobody to marry her at all, if you 
don’t mind.” 

“Well, I only hope Mr. Kenrick can keep her; 
for it has never been in my knowledge that news- 
paper people and actors ever kept the bailiffs out of 
their houses, or did not come to drinking, and such 
like ; though I always said Mr. Kenrick was an ex- 
ception, and a very nice young man.” 

“There, that will do,” said Barbara, promptly; 
and, going to the staircase, she called out, “ Esther, 
Esther, you are wanted.” Then requesting me to 
walk into the next room, which I did, she brought 


802 


CHKISTOPHER KENRICK. 


Esther to me ; and I forgave Barbara Wilton for all 
she had done at Lindford. 

Esther was just budding into womanhood — round, 
dimpled, rosy, blushing womanhood. Her thick, 
brown hair rippled over her shoulders. A small 
gold brooch clasped a black lace collar round her 
neck, permitting her full, white throat to come out 
in rare white contrast. She wore a limp, clinging 
dress of the dear old lama color, that fell in sweep- 
ing folds upon the floor. She was^a picture of inno- 
cence and beauty. I could show you a little picture 
in which the studies of Marguerite” and “ Miran- 
da” are sketched by an affectionate, loving hand 
from my dear girl. 

How happy we were, thus restored to one another 
in that dear, stupid, sleepy, old Eleetborough, I can- 
not pretend to say. What stories we had to tell 
each other, what explanations to give, you will 
readily imagine. We sat together on the great 
square sofa, and talked until evening, and no one 
disturbed us. Esther wept and laughed by turns at 
my adventures. When she wept there was a sweet 
excuse for kissing her into smiles again. Oh, how 
fast the hours sped on ! 

It seemed as if we had only been a few minutes 
together when Barbara came in and said — 

‘‘ You’d better come and have some tea,” march- 
ing out again after this intimation with the formality 
of a drill-sergeant. 

We adjourned to the next room, and there sat 


“this day shall be a love-day.” 303 

down with Mrs. Wilton and Barbara to a liberal Mid- 
land tea, in which fresh butter, eggs, pikelets, brown 
bread, pork-pie, and marmalade, were temptingly 
displayed at the foot of a bronze urn that towered 
above the table and emitted a sluggish curl of steam. 

It was a pleasant little room, furnished with the 
comforts of a middle-class house, — an easy-chair, a 
chintz-covered couch, an old-fashioned sideboard, 
a few engravings, and a score of books on some 
hanging shelves. The evening songs of happy birds 
came in at the window with the scent of woodbine ; 
and although I could not see it, I felt satisfied that 
there was a little garden outside, half fiowers, half 
vegetables, hemmed in by a wall ; beyond which 
there were meadows and scattered houses and the 
slumbering river, — that same river which had borne 
my boat at Lindford amongst the weeds and rushes 
and water-lilies that rustled beneath the bow, and 
made a hushing lullaby music to those early words 
of hope and fancy of the Lindford lovers. 

During tea, in artful, indirect words and whispers 
(the candles were not lighted, and no one noticed 
Esther’s blushes but myself), Barbara helped me to 
have an early day fixed for the wedding. Mrs. Wil- 
ton consented to leave the affair entirely to those 
most interested — Esther and myself. And when the 
last train started that night from Eleetborough, it 
carried to Lindford a very happy passenger, whose 
head was full of the marriage service, house-furnish- 
ing, and plans for a little marriage tour ; which 


304 


CHEISTOPHER KENRICK. 


pleasant thoughts, however, did not prevent that 
same happy passenger from sitting up all night to 
earn with his pen some of those necessary sover- 
eigns which melt so quickly away before the happy 
smiles of newly-married people. 



CHAPTEE XXIX. 


EXTEACTS FROM MY DIARY, IN WHICH THE STORY OF 
MY LIFE IS CONTINUED. 

June 1. — Eluellen, thou art right, the poet makes 
a most excellent description of Fortune,” when he 
says that she is blind, and when “ she is painted 
with a wheel : to signify to you, Avhich is the moral 
of it, that she is turning and inconstant, and muta- 
bility and variation : and her foot, look you, is fixed 
upon a spherical stone, -which rolls, and rolls, and 
rolls.” How I remember me of the time when I 
sat on that stool in old Hitching’ s office and thought 
of ships at sea whilst studying the advertising sheet 
of the Times. “ All my fortunes are at sea ; neither 
have I money, nor commodity to raise a present 
sum.” How often I have quoted the poor mer- 
chant’s words ! And now my ships are coming in. 
They are not going to be wrecked and scattered. 
Their gilded prows are looming in the bay. For- 
tuna is at the helm. Waft them, gentle gales, into 

Hope’s fair port I am very happy. My father 

has voluntarily written a kind letter of congratula- 
tion upon my paper on Unknown Martyrs,” which 
has been quoted at length in the Stoneyfield paper 
by my old friend Stanton. Mem,, to remember that 


306 


CHPJSTOPHEB KENKICK. 


The Briton is open to me, and anxious for a special 

series of papers A dear letter from Esther, 

wondering if Miss Belmont might be invited to our 
wedding. Am determined, if Esther does not ob- 
ject, to have no one at our wedding. Of all cere- 
monies in the world which exclusively concern those 
persons alone affected by them, to my mind the cer- 
emony of marriage is first and foremost. A wed- 
ding should be a quiet, private business, the first 
consideration the bride and bridegroom, who require 
no extraneous pomp or demonstrative friendship to 
complete their happiness. "Wlien the honeymoon is 
over and the married people return to their friends, 
that is the time for rejoicing and feasting. I think 
Esther will be of the same mind when I tell her 
what I think a wedding should be. Generous girl, 
to mention Julia Belmont so kindly ; but not more 
generous than the actress. That letter, it was a 
noble thing Mem., to write a paper on ‘‘ Wo- 

men and Men,” the leading idea being that a good 
woman is far better than the noblest man. Query. 
How is it that the proverbs of nearly all nations are 
against women ? Look this up. Sliaks'peare makes 
his men say fierce things against women ; but what 
dear, dehghtful, noble creatures he has painted ! 

June 2. — I am worth this day sixty pounds, and I 
have moneys owing to me. With my present pros- 
pects I am justified in going into debt for furnish- 
ing. I have no doubt about it. Wonder if my 
father will make a present to me. Shall I go and 


EXTRACTS FROM MY DIARY. 


307 


see him ? Why not ? Say, Sunday next. It makes 
me shudder to think of that interview when he told 
me my poor mother was dead. Cruel, cruel, bitter 
day ! Let me not dwell upon it. If there was noth- 
ing but summer in our lives we should not under- 
stand the blessings of the sun and the flowers. My 
winter is over, I think ; but I can never forget the 
ice and the snow, and the chill and bitter winds. 
.... Cator Manners has called upon me. He has 
been in love with Julia Belmont any time this five 
years, and been rejected twice. She wished for that 
engagement with regard to the Lady of Lyons, and 
commanded him to coach me up in the part. He 
cannot think why. He knew she had a fancy for me. 
It was her wish that he should induce me to come 
upon the stage for good. Obeyed her up to a cer- 
tain point, but strove to put the Herald in my way 
of acceptance. Has no objection to tell me all, now 
that it is settled. Knew I was in love with Miss 
Wilton, and had told Miss Belmont so, hoping to 
make her not think anything of me. .She had vowed 
to him, over and over again, that she would never 
marry, and he thought that might be the reason 
which he had previously explained. Was free to 
confess now, that the mystery he had alluded to was 
no mystery at all ; there was no bar sinister in Miss 
Belmont’s escutcheon. I told him his conduct was 
the conduct of a scoundrel. Said he knew that. 
Did not know anything about an arrangement to 
get Lady Somerfield’s party to the theatre that 


308 


CHRISTOPHER KENRICK. 


night. Had known young Howard for years. Did 
certainly tell him privately who the “ amateur” was 
a w^eek before the night of the performance. Was 
going to marry Miss Belmont, and was a happy 
man ; she “ a blooming young lady with ten thou- 
sand pounds to her fortune.” .... It was How- 
ard’s own idea, then, bringing the Somerfields to the 
play in order that Esther might see me in the 
arms of Julia Belmont. Was the actress really so 
much in love with me that she hoped to get me 
on the stage that I might be near her ? Or am I a 
vain, conceited fellow ? . . . . Seen Manners again. 
Asked him if he knew that Julia hard posted a letter 
to Miss Wilton by the first post on the morning after 
the play. Yes, he knew all about it. How did she 
know that my prospects in that quarter would be 
injured by wdiat had taken place? This was his 
reply. “ I took her home after she was off, and told 
her how you had flung down the Prince’s hat and 
cursed me. I told her that you said you would 
not lose the good opinion of that girl for forty 
thousand theatrical triumphs. I told her that you 
had nearly lost Miss Wilton once before because 
she was jealous of her, and that you did not know 
she was in the theatre, that she saw you there acci- 
dentally, that you were fit to cut your throat and 
mine, and fancied you were the victim of a plot. I 
told her a great deal more than I shall tell you, and 
I told her also what I don’t mind repeating, that as 
faithfully and as fervently as you loved Miss Wilton 


EXTRACTS FROM MY DIARY. 


309 


I loved and worsliipped her. She said she had too 
much interest in your future to see you unhappy, 
and charged me to get Miss Wilton’s address imme- 
diately. I begged her, in a manly way, to think of 
my future, too. ‘ Get me that address, and come to 
me in half an hour,’ she said. I did so, and she 
said, ‘ Cator, you are a good fellow, and I will try 
to love you ; we will be married when you please.’ 
There, that’s all I know, and I tell you all in the 
confidence of friendship, which I am sure will not be 
violated by Christopher Kenrick.” Congratulated 
Manners heartily : said the lady he was about to 
marry was a noble woman, whom I should always 
respect and esteem ; hoped we should be friends, 
and promised to forget that disgraceful bit of 
lover’s stratagem in which he, in the strangest man- 
ner, tried to lower Miss Belmont in my estimation 
that he might not lose her. O world ! thou art 

peopled with a marvellous race Have been 

thinking over a pretty notion, which was, to take 
that old house of the Wiltons’, and carry Esther 
home again in a double sense when we are married ; 
but passing Nixon’s, I saw poor Mitching hiding 
from his keeper, and gazing idiotically at her 
through his gold-rimmed glasses, which gave me 
the heart-ache. What has become of his wife ? and 
of Tom Eolgate ? Shall I ever see them again ? 
No doubt ; everybody meets again in this world. 
. . . . Met Miss Belmont in the street. She was 
in a cab, going to the station with her luggage. I 


310 


CHEISTOPHEE KENEICK. 


motioned the driver to stop, went up to her, raised 
my hat, shook hands most respectfully, and said I 
should be her debtor ever. Said she was delighted 
to have been able to serve me in some way where 
gold did not count. Would I see her to the station ? 
With pleasure. She was cheerful, chatty, and 
bright ; asked me if I would give her away when 
she married Cator, hoped I should make a good 
husband, and was in every way agreeable and amus- 
ing. Surely I must be mistaken about her being in 
love with me. I shall put it down finally to my own 
vanity. I was almost piqued that she seemed so 
cheerful and happy about her marriage with Cator. 
He came up just before the train started ; she kissed 
him when the engine whistled, and waved her hand 
to me. “God bless her,” said Manners, gazing 
after the train. “ She is the best woman in all the 
world.” What a miserable dog he would have been 
if I had happened to think so in Harbourford, Avhen 
my worser angel said, “ Marry her, Kenny !” There ! 

1 am at it again Mem. I must have a studio 

in my house ; I shall put up my easel again, think 
of Abel Crockford, and paint. I hope some day to 
have a picture hung in the Academy. Shall also cul- 
tivate music, if ever I have enough time. Fear I am 

building castles in Spain Am receiving many 

compliments about the Herald. It is certainly a 
model little journal, nearly all original matter ; 
the work done up to a high standard. The press 
should be above the petty littlenesses of ordinaiy 


EXTEACTS FEOM MY DIARY. 


311 


life. Am studying political economy — a hard lesson, 
but it gives precision and point to one’s style. I 
prefer the realms of fancy and imagination to the 
sober world of fact, but a journalist should accustom 
himself to both. Mem,, for an essay on “ Style,” 
showing the futility of Rules of Composition.” 
How lasting are the works of the truly great! 
Cicero’s philosophical works are quite fresh in the 
present age. And Shakspeare will be juvenile and 
a propos a thousand years hence. Blessings on the 
bard and on all good books ? How the memory of 
those Stoneyfield volumes crops up to remind me 
that I owe much of my literary taste and enjoyment 
of books to that old shop of my father’s where I first 
read Shakspeare and the Border Ballads. 

Jum 6. — Who says Friday is an unlucky day? All 
days used to be unlucky in my life ; none are un- 
lucky now. Besides, it would never do for me to 
think Friday unlucky. The Herald is published 
on that day, and it is already advancing under my 
management. Friday unlucky 1 Yesterday was Fri- 
day. As soon as the Herald was out I went to 
Stoneyfield, and once more presented myself to that 
strange old man, my father. “ O thou, the earthly 
author of my blood.” He took me by the hand, and 
said he was glad to see me. He was not affection- 
ate in his manner ; but he said I had redeemed the 
past, and he was proud of my literary achievements. 
Poor old man ! He led me into that little inner par- 
lor, where my mother nursed me when I was a child. 


312 


CHEISTOPHEE KENRICK. 


It is strange liow the memory of a happy time over- 
tops miserable associations. Nearly all my young 
life I had been wretched and miserable here; yet 
the little happy time overspread all the other, and 
I could see a boy sitting on his mother’s knee and 
listening to “ Kobin Adair.” My father saw that it 
was with difficulty I mastered my emotions. “ It 
touches me to the heart to see you, my son,” he 
said. “ I am an old man, with less strength of mind 
than formerly :” and, thereupon, he fell upon my 
shoulder and wept. He was very much changed. I 
placed him in a chair, and in a few minutes he was 
quite talkative and chatty. I told him freely of my 
hopes and prospects. I showed him a little pencil 
sketch of “ Esther,” the work of my own hand. He 
said it was a kind face, but cautioned me to have 
a care about marriage. When I came away he 
charged me to come and see him often, and shaking 
hands with me, thrust into my hand five ten-pound 
notes. So that I am worth now in hard cash one 
hundred and ten pounds. I visited my mother’s 
tomb before I left Stoneyfield. “What’s this dull 
world to me, Eobin Adair!” .... Called at Dr. 
Sharpe’s to see Emmy Wilton ; she is not well, but 
has gone to her mother’s at Eleetborough. I shall 
meet her there to-morrow (Sunday). 

June 8. — At Eleetborough. In the afternoon went 
to church with Esther and Emmy. Sat in a corner 
of the high-backed pew with Esther, and was de- 
voutly happy. Prayed earnestly ; but glanced once 


EXTEACTS FEOM MY DIAEY. 313 

during the Litany at another part of the Prayer 
Book, in which there is much asking of M. or N. if 
M. or N. will take this man, &c. Walked home to 
dinner by the river, and talked of old times; but 
none of us mentioned Tom Folgate. Emmy ap- 
peared to be amused at the recent theatrical epi- 
sode, and said she quite agreed with C. K., that it 
was better to be married at once. “You will 
come and see me,” she said, half earnestly, half in 
joke, “when I am a poor needle- woman in a gar- 
ret.” I said playfully, that we should have nothing 
to do with her; and it crossed my mind that our 
fortunes were turning out very contrarily. For my- 
self and Esther, we had never been ambitious for a 
fine house with statues on the stairs ; whilst Emmy 
had settled upon all this grandeur long ago ; and 
now, here we were on the eve of marriage, and with 
a prospect of good fortune before us, whilst poor 
Emmy had lost her lover and her hopes. Tom Fol- 
gate, thou art a God-forsaken rascal ! Mrs. Wilton 
was more cheerful in her manner toward me. Bar- 
bara was as hard and jerky and emphatic as ever. 
She had a fierce spar at tea-time with Emmy, but 
that did not ruffle the general repose of the family 
and the place. To church again in the evening, and 
after church a long walk home, over a meadow and 
down a leafy lane — a leafy lane in June. If I ever 
paint I shall put a bit of that lane on canvas, with 
two persons walking there in the twihght. I shall 
never forget how happy two young people were one 
14 


314 


CPIKISTOPHER KENEICK. 


Sunday evening, walking down that leafy lane in 

June Have had a very heavy day’s work, and 

it is past midnight whilst I am making this note in 
my diary. Shall go to bed and dream I am a great 
author. By the way, I have had some strange 
dreams lately. The other night I was with Tom 
Folgate in a house where a woman had died of 
want ; and when I looked upon the body, it was 
that of Mrs. Hitching, and her face was uglier than 
the ugliest Stoneyfield drab. Horrible idea ! An- 
other time, I saw Abel Crockford in some dire 
trouble about his picture, which turned out to be 
a copy of Velasquez, and a bad copy, too. “ Never 
mind, Abel,” I said ; “ it is worth two hundred 
pounds as a copy, and I will find you a customer 
for it.” Mem. “ Dreams and Dreamers” would be a 
good subject for an article, tracing out the idea of 
the unbounded character of the human mind, which 

makes a world of its own during sleep To 

bed, and I hope I may dream of Esther. 

June 14. — Had no time to write in my diary for a 
week. Have taken, what house does my diary 
think? That little place in the Bromfield Boad, 
where Eitzwalton lived. Miss Birt (I beg her 
pardon, Mrs. Noel Stanton) will surely be angry 
when she knows this. Must write to the Stoneyfield 
editor, by the way. He has sent me a short note, in 
which he says that he had heard of my visit to 
Stoneyfield, and is surprised at my not looking him 
up. What a pleasant little place this will be ! On 


EXTRACTS FROM MY DIARY. 


315 


the ground-floor there is a dining-room, drawing- 
room, and a kitchen, all snug and haildy ; up-stairs 
are four bedrooms, an attic, and a little room that 
Fitzwalton used as a study, and which C. K. will 
use as a study, if Esther does not object. I should 
like to put up my easel in the garret, but I must talk 
all this over with my dear girl. My landlady is help- 
ing me in the furnishing : it is an endless, trouble- 
some, pleasant, delightful thing — getting a house 
ready for her you love, preparing your first home, 
your own, own home, as a girl would say .... The 
Herald has been threatened with an action for hbel, 
but there is nothing in it ; I am too careful, even in 
the height of journalistic excitement, to perpetrate a 
libel. The Briton has commenced my series of 
papers on “Plodding and Plodders,” — a peculiar 
title, but a good subject. Have serious thoughts of 
writing a novel. Am getting quite into the hack 
spirit of literature, but shall give that up when I am 
rich ; for example. Masters & Appollos, the pub- 
lishers, proprietors of The Stage, sent me a picture 
for their “ Sea-Side Annual.” They wanted not only 
a poem written to the picture, but to the proverb 
which the poem is supposed to illustrate — “Love 
me little, love nie long.” This is the result of my 
hired muse : 

ril woo thee not in words of passion, 

All I ask is in my song ; 

ITl woo thee in the good old fashion — 

Love me little, love me long. 


316 


CHRISTOPHEE KENRICK. 


I will be true unto thee ever, 

Guarding thee from ev’iy wrong ; 

Naught from thee my faith shall sever — 

Love me little, love me long. 

Fiercest flames the soonest smoulder, 

Gentle liking waxeth strong ; 

Eveiy day youth groweth older — 

Love me little, love me long. 

How different to my sentiments in regard to Esther 
—‘‘love me much, and love me ever !” 

June 27. — Have arranged for a week’s holiday. 
Noel Stanton will write two leaders for me, and run 
over in the middle of the week to give my journal- 
istic lieutenant some further assistance. To-morrow 
morning I go to Eleethorough. On Monday there 
is to be a very quiet wedding in that old church with 
the high-backed pews, and then, hurrah for London ! 
Esther has approved of all my plans. I think, if I 
said, “ My dear, I shall want a small piece of your 
little finger,” she would give it me. We are not 
fashionable rich people, or of course we should 
worry ourselves to death with a grand wedding and 

a continental journey Selden exactly hits my 

own opinion about marriage ; “ Of all the actions of 
a man’s life his marriage does least concern other 
people, yet, of all actions of our life, it is most med- 
dled with by other people.” There will be no med- 
dling with me or my marriage. Except with regard 
to my father and Emmy, it is to be a secret until the 


EXTKACTS FROM MY DIARY. 


317 


bells begin to ring, and bj that time ^ve shall be in 
the train for London ; and then, oh, for a happy- 
holiday week !— “ Youth at the prow, and Pleasure 
at the helm.” 

June 29. — Sunday night at Flee thorough — mid- 
night in my bedroom, the last night of my bachelor- 
hood. To some fellows there would be just one 
little pang of regret at changing all the freedom of 
a single life, despite all the joys of the married state. 
I have no regrets ; then I have no bachelor haunts 
to give up, or partly relinquish ; I belong to no 
smoking coteries, no pleasant clubs. This great 
change with me means what it should mean to all 
men who work and look forward to a career of pros- 
perous labor : it means that I shall have a compan- 
ion, a partner to cheer me on and help me with 
sympathetic encouragement. I feel and think like 
an old man, though I look very young, they say, and 
especially when I wear that new blue coat, and a 
white waistcoat. I am only twenty-two, and my 
wife is eighteen — too young to marry, some would 
say. I am forty in experience and trouble, and 
Esther forty in consideration and thoughtfulness. 

poor doll,” that wretch Nixon says she is, 
simply meaning not good at bargaining for butter 
and groceries, and such like, I suppose. A horrible 
fiendish woman, Nixon ; what will she say when she 
hears I am married ? . . . . Leaving Lindford yes- 
terday morning I dropped the wedding-ring which I 
had bought, in a clandestine way, through a Lot' ’’ 


318 


CHEISTOPHEB KENRICK. 


jeweller ; I had not courage to go into a shop at 
Lindford for it. How is it we can all do and say 
things on paper that we are too bashful to do or say 
in person. I was wearing this dear ring, and drop- 
ped it on the Lindford platform. “What is it, 
sir ?” the porters asked. “ A ring,” I said ; “ I must 
find it and thereupon everybody began to search. 
For a moment I thought, ‘‘It is a bad omen to lose 
that ring,” and I felt quite miserable for ten minutes, 
at the end of which time I spied the ring near a few 
bright rose-leaves that had fallen from a lady’s 
bouquet. “ If it is a bad omen to lose the ring,” I 
said unto myself, “ it is a good one that I am the 
person to find it. In the ‘ Language of Flowers,’ 
what do rose-leaves signify ?” I asked Esther the 
question ; she did not know, but was sure the senti- 
ment was a happy one I tried the ring upon 

her finger this afternoon, and felt like a long- 
expectant heir who had come into a splendid herit- 
age This chamber is evidently the spare 

bedroom of the house ; it has been used by Esther. 
There are a few trinkets about ; a toilet-bottle and 
a ring-stand that I could swear are hers ; some httle 
womanly touches here and there — a pretty mat on 
the dressing-table and another on the drawers, 
which are like her handiwork ; and on the mantel- 
piece a small bouquet of freshly gathered migno- 
nette, daisies, and lilies of the valley 

Good-night, most sweet, most rare wench ! be thy 
happiness my constant care ; an’ I make thee not a 


EXTRACTS FROM MY DIARY. 


319 


good, true husband, fillip me with a three-manned 
beetle, as that sack-and-sugar rascal in the play 
hath it. What, O all-potent prompter. Time, wave 
thy magic wand, and whilst I sleep, and dream, per- 
chance, let the transformation scene gradually dis- 
close its rare and magic beauties. Let the music 
play gentle, propitious, inviting airs, whilst Little 
Boy Blue, or some other happy wight of fairy 
romance, lies down in his work-a-day clothes, and 
rises up in the morning sunshine a true prince of the 
blood royal, with a ready-made darling princess at 
his side. Away, away, dark sober mists of Bache- 
lorhood ! Come, come amain, the sunny light of 
love and sweet hymeneal hours. 



CHAPTEE XXX. 


A CHAPTER BY THE WAY: CHIEFLY CONCERNING THE 

REV. PAUL FELTON; BUT ALSO INTERESTING TO THE 

FRIENDS AND ADMIRERS OF FATHER ELLIS. 

At Hallow once again, amidst ‘‘the uncertain 
glories of an April day.” The changes that the 
showery month rings upon the fickle winds are not 
more variable than our fortunes. Let the following 
dialogue bear witness : the time is twelve ; the 
scene, the drawing-room which you did me the 
honor to enter at an early stage of this most vera- 
cious history. 

Myself, Now then, quick, Ellis, before Cissy comes ; 
tell us all about it. 

EUis, (He has insisted that I call him “ father” no 
longer — that article in the Beview, against celibacy, 
is from my friend’s pen.) I will tell you all I know. 
The Eeverend (Heaven save the mark ! ) Paul Felton 
married the Widow Naseby whilst you were in Scot- 
land. 

Mrs. KenricTc, Yes, we know that, Mr. Ellis. 

Ellis. During the honeymoon, which they spent 
in Paris, Felton was followed about by a person 
named White, who had also been in the Church. 
White turned up everywhere, and made himself 
excessively disagreeable, imitating and annoying 


EEV. PAUL FELTON — FATHER ELLIS. 


321 


Mrs. Felton immensely. This lasted for a few 
days ; and then, Felton getting angry with his vis- 
itor, there was a row, and White, at the table d’hote 
of the Grand Hotel, said, “ You are a convict and a 
scoundrel, and I will expose you.” He repeated 
this in French, that nobody should miss the point 
of the remark. There was a tremendous scene : 
Mrs. Felton fainted ; the men would have fought 
like English blackguards, but the maitre prevented 
them. Mr. White disappeared, and so did the Fel- 
tons, who went to London, and thence returned home. 

Mrs. Kenriclc. When did all this come out ? 

Mr. Ellis. A few days ago in the police reports 
of a Suffolk paper, which I hold in my hand. 

Myself. Finish the story, Ellis. 

3Ir. Ellis. They no sooner got home than the 
postman brings, post after post, anonymous letters, 
bearing the Suffolk post-mark, addressed to the 
“ Eev. Paul Felton, alias Jones, convict, the Kectory, 
Hallow.” These threaten Mr. Felton, that if he 
does not at once pay a certain sum of money to 
Wliite, he will be exposed. The end of the story 
is told by the Eeverend Paul Felton himself, who 
has White arrested, and taken before a Suffolk 
bench of magistrates and committed for trial at the 
assizes. 

Mysdf. What an extraordinary case ! 

Mr. Ellis. White and Felton appear to have had 
some transactions together in the purchase and sale 
of benefices (a scandal upon the Church which I 
14 * 


322 


CHEISTOPHEE KENEICK. 


hope to see bear good fruit in the Church’s own 
interest), and the settlement of accounts was unsat- 
isfactory to White. Felton had retired from the 
“business” when he came here, and intended to 
lead a good and exemplary life. A few months ago 
White learnt, for the first time, the story of Felton’s 
antecedents, and threatened him with exposure. 
This, by the way, was the time when he broke off 
his engagement with Cissy. Soon afterward, how- 
ever, he paid White a sum of money to secure silense. 
In the course of a short time he married Mrs. Naseby. 
Thereupon, White recommenced his persecutions; 
Felton paid him extortionate demands in Paris to 
keep him quiet, and even after that outburst in the 
Grand Hotel, made another and a final settlement 
with him ; but the persecution was continued by 
personal letters and anonymous communications. 
Mrs. Felton, alarmed and angry, upbraided her 
husband ; and, altogether, the poor fellow w^as in a 
very miserable state. He started off to London, 
took counsel’s advice, had White arrested, and got 
him committed for sending threatening and men- 
acing letters. Felton stood up in the witness-box 
and confessed that his name was Jones ; that when 
he was a deacon he was charged with forging a bill, 
and sentenced to three years’ imprisonment, which 
he served, afterward changed his name, got ordained, 
and is now rector of Hallow. 

3Irs, Kenrick. Good Heavens ! What an escape 
our poor dear Cissy has had ! 


REV. PAUL FELTON — FATHER ELLIS. 


323 


Blyself. I dare say she will believe that he broke 
off the engagement because he really loved her, and 
would not run the risk of making her unhappy. 

Mrs. Kenrick. Probably she will, Christopher, and 
she may do so without forfeiting her title to the most 
affectionate consideration. 

Mr, EUis. I am myseK inclined to think that you 
have correctly interpreted Felton’s conduct with re- 
gard to Cissy. 

Mysdf. Generous being ! But is there not a crime 
called simony ? 

Mr. Ellis. There is ; and to that the lawyers would 
not let either Felton or White confess. 

Mysdf. A very pretty story as it stands ; and we 
shall have our friend S. G. O. down upon it, no doubt. 
The practice of trading in livings is a blot upon 
Church administration 

Mr. EUis. Which must and shall be wiped out, 
sir. 

{Enter Cissy and Bess.] 

Cissy. How do you do, Mr. Ellis ? I told Bess you 
were here. 

Mr. EUis. Thank you, my pretty Cissy ; you look 
as fresh as the April daisies, in that morning robe. 

Cissy. Thank you, sir ; and what do you think 
of Bess? 

Mr. EUis. (Taking Bess by the hand.) Think she 
is worthy to be your sister. Cissy. 

Cissy. (Courtesying and smiling.) Thank you, 
again. Mr, Ellis, you must have been to court lately. 


324 


CHEISTOPHER KENRICK. 


Mr, EUis, No ; nor am I in a parlous state. Miss 
Bessie, there were numerous inquiries for you in the 
village this morning. 

Bess, Indeed ; why am I in request ? 

Mrs, Kmrick, I know all about it, Bess, and will 
see the people for you. 

Cissy, Pa, when shall you have finished your 
story? 

Mysdf, Very soon now, my dear. 

Cissy, We want you to take us out for a month 
when you are off what you call the literary tread- 
mill. 

Bess, Who would have imagined that father could 
be so sentimental as he confesses to have been ? 

Mysdf, Ellis could have imagined it. You should 
have heard his reverence talking about you the 
other evening. 

Cissy. What did he say, pa ? Tell us all about it. 

Bess, Do father, if you like. 

Mr. Ellis, And you may for me. 

Myself. No, I will not betray the bashful young 
lover’s confidence. 

Bess, Mr. Kenrick is going to be facetious, I can 
see ; take me into the garden, Mr. Ellis. 

\^Exit Father Ellis and Bess, the latter pretend- 
ing to be very angry, and casting pleasant side 
glances at Mrs. Kenrick.] 

Mrs. Kenriclc. You should not plague them so 
much, Christopher. 

Cissy. Oh, they don’t mind it, mamma. Bess 


REV. PAUL FELTON — FATHER ELLIS. 325 

likes it ; slie often says funny things herself to Mr. 
Ellis. She told him, the other day, if he was only 
marrying her for the sake of having a nurse in his 
old age he had better reconsider his offer, as she 
could not nurse, and hated making gruel. 

Myself, Bess is an odd creature. 

Cissy, She is, indeed. There she is at the win- 
dow, beckoning. Let me go and see what she 
wants. \_Exit Cissy.] 

Mrs, Kenrick, I suppose you have no objection to 
our people at Hallow haviug some festivities on 
Bessie’s wedding-day ? 

Myself, Let me* see — when is it ? 

3Irs, Kenrick, Beally, it is too bad of you to forget 
in this way. On Monday week. 

Myself, My darling, I cannot help my memory 
failing ; I am getting into the sere and yellow leaf. 

Mrs, Kenrick, I certainly wish your memory were 
not so defective ; the illustrations of that fading are 
very remarkable in the recent chapters of your pro- 
fessed biography. 

Myself, Name them, my dear, name them. 

3Irs, Kenrick, Not now ; I wish to talk of matters 
more important. Your lawyer called, when you were 
out after breakfast, to say that the settlements are 
ready. 

3Iyself, Yes, all right. 

3Irs, Kenrick, And what about the church ? Is it 
to be decorated? and shall we ask Lady Somer- 
field’s brother to assist at the ceremony ? 


326 


CHRISTOPHER KENRICK. 


Mysdf, Do whatever you think best, my dear. 

Mrs, Kenrick. But I am anxious to know what you 
wish. 

Mysdf, Nothing more and nothing less than you 
wish. I should think one parson will be able to 
marry them ; but, if you would like two, you could 
not have a better fellow than Lady Somerfield’s 
brother. 

Mrs, Kenrick, And about decorating the church ? 

Myself, If the school-children wish to do it, let 
them by all means. 

3Irs, Kenrick, Mr. Ellis’s parishioners are going 
to present him with a salver, and Bessie with a 
brooch. The Hallow people are subscribing for a 
silver tea-service. 

Mysdf, The Hallow people are very kind. 

Mrs, Kenrick, I wish Tom could have been here. 

Myself, Ah ! so do I ; but he would have been a 
tyrant to Ellis. It seems so absurd, Ellis marrying, 
— and Bess, too, for that matter. 

Mrs, Kenrick, I reaUy cannot see it. I have 
known younger men than Mr. Ellis whose hair has 
been as white as snow. It is nonsense to call a man 
of forty-five old. 

Myself, Perhaps it is. I married too young ; Ellis 
goes to the other extreme. 

Mrs, Kenrick, You are an aggravating creature. 
[Giving me a hearty kiss.] 

Myself, And you, a dear, good, match-making. 


EEV. PAUL FELTON — FATHER ELLIS. 


327 


silly old woman. [Kissing her again, like a loving 
old donkey as I am.] 

3Irs, Kenrick. Then you give me carte hlanche, and 
promise not to be angry, whatever I may do. 

Myself, Don’t let sentiment master your judgment, 
that is all. 

\_Exit omnes. Mrs. K. to confer with villagers, bell- 
ringers, school-children; I to describe, if possible, 
all that I remember of my own strange marriage at 
rieetborough.] 



CHAPTEE XXXI. 


I AM MAKKIED. 

Esther left it all to me, and I ordered the arrange- 
ments in this wise. 

At eleven o’clock Esther and Barbara were to 
come to the church, where I should meet them. 
The sexton had strict orders to let no one know 
what was going on, and he was to give my darling 
away. After the ceremony we were to return to 
breakfast ; at two o’clock to start for London, just as 
the bells clashed forth a merry peal both at Fleet- 
borough and Lindford. Barbara was to occupy the 
remainder of the day in sending off our wedding- 
cards. 

It was a bright summer day. Many a time in 
‘‘wedding descriptions” for the Herald and other 
papers, I had used up the well-known line “ Happy 
is the bride that the sun shines on.” I thought of it 
now as the sun shone beamingly down upon every- 
thing, making the river sparkle in spite of its lazy 
determination not to disturb itself about anything, 
making the roofs of those thatched houses hard by 
fairly blaze with their yellow stonecrop and lichens, 
making the windows shimmer and glimmer, and the 
reflection of the river creep up and down the walls 


I AM MABRIED. 


329 


like fairy lights, making the tall trees stand out 
green and tender against the clear bright sky, 
making all creation look happy and smiling, and 
filling my heart with gratitude to the great Master 
whose power is seen no less in the painted wing of 
that butterfly fluttering on our way than in yon 
glorious sun, whose genial light has called it forth 
for a few bright and transient hours. 

The gray old church looked down upon me with 
all the solemnity of three centuries ; the rooks called 
to each other high up in the brown and mossy 
tower ; the sunlight followed me through the carved 
and worn old porch, and rested in a lustrous halo 
upon the altar, tinged with gleams of red and yel- 
low, and blue and purple, that came in through the 
painted story of the Prodigal Son. My footsteps 
resounded like ancient echoes through the old moth- 
eaten church, and separate echoes seemed to wander 
alone through the tall pews and up into the oaken 
gallery, and amongst the organ-pipes. Then other 
footsteps came into the church, and I heard the 
voices of the sexton and the Kev. Cornelius Norton 
talking together in the vestry. I went to the church 
door then, and met Esther and Barbara in the porch. 

A gray silk dress, the smallest indication of 
orange-blossoms in her white straw bonnet, and my 
own little wedding presentj a diamond brooch, in 
her black lace shawl, were the only special marks of 
holiday and festival in my dear girl’s attire. Barbara 
had done herself up in a stupid gorgeous red and 


330 


CHRISTOPHER KENRICK. 


yellow fashion, but I only saw Esther’s sweet con- 
tented smile, and my gratitude for Barbara’s kind 
help was sufficient just then to cover any excess of 
color in her dress or anything else ; and she knew 
it, for she succeeded in attaching a condition to my 
marriage with Esther, which in after-days cost me 
much money and considerable anxiety, though I got 
over it all and prospered, nevertheless. But why 
sully this eventful happy time even with an allusion 
to anything disagreeable ? 

The marriage ceremony seems to me, looking back 
from these days, like the misty incident of a very 
happy dream. I remember how proudly I put the 
ring upon Esther’s finger ; I remember her sweet 
yet firm responses, and my own loud “ I wills I 
remember my fervent prayers ; I remember looking 
up once and seeing a girl with a child in her arms 
standing just within the church, and looking on with 
a curious interested gaze : she had wandered into the 
church, finding the door ajar, and with the sunlight 
upon her head she looked like some holy figure out 
of some painted cathedral ; I remember going into 
the vestry and signing the book, and I remember 
walking home again with Esther through that same 
leafy lane, walking together for the first time as man 
and wife, never to part until death should come be- 
tween us ; I remember that we had breakfast, and 
that the first bottle of champagne would not “ pop,” 
which Mrs. Wilton feared was a bad omen ; I re- 
member packing up afterward with a wonderful 


I AM MARRIED. 


331 


sensation in my mind of increased importance and 
responsibility; I remember assisting Esther into 
that cab from the Crown ; and I remember, just as 
the train started for London, hearing the old bells of 
Eleetborough ring out with a sudden burst of mel- 
ody that seemed to startle the porters at the station. 
The sounds followed us for a few seconds, and then 
we were fairly on our first journey in life. 

It is somewhat remarkable that one particular 
incident of the marriage which I ought, perhaps, 
hardly to remember, is wonderfully impressed upon 
my mind — it is the breakfast. There never was such 
a wedding-breakfast in this world. It was laid out 
in the parlor, and consisted of — what does the reader 
think ? The most important dish was minced veal, 
and the least obtrusive was cold chicken. There 
was a nice bit of ribs of beef with celery sauce, for 
which Mrs. Wilton was famous amongst her friends. 
There was no tea, there was no coffee ; but there was 
stout, and champagne, cheese-cakes, and jam. 

“ This is not a breakfast,” said Barbara ; “ it is a 
luncheon for travellers.” 

Esther looked at me to see what impression the 
display was making upon me. 

“ Barbara would have it like this,” said Mrs. Wil- 
ton, in a querulous sort of protest ; ‘4or my part, I 
should like the affair to have been done in proper 
order. I always think it is best not to go out of 
the ways of the world, especially at christenings, 
marriages, and funerals.” 


332 


CHRISTOPHER KENRICK. 


‘‘We have not got to the christenings yet,” said 
Barbara, jerking out each word at the ceiling, and 
chuckling slightly at the close of her remark. 

“ No ; you quite know what I mean, and I am 
sure Mr. Kenrick does,” said Mrs. Wilton. 

“ For what we are going to receive,” said Bar- 
bara, “ Lord, make us truly thankful ; and that will 
do, Mary, you may leave the room. I’ll see that all 
is right.” 

Whereupon the servant left the room, and Bar- 
bara proceeded to assist us to the various delicacies 
which had been provided for our luncheon. 

“ Where is the cake, Barbara ?” I asked. 

“ Yonder, on the sideboard,” said that emphatic 
lady. “ I am cutting it up for presents.” 

“ Oh, you should have put it on the table,” said 
Esther. 

“ If it had been a breakfast in the regular way, I 
should,” was the prompt reply. 

“ Barbara is so strange,” said Mrs. Wilton. “ I 
am sure when I married my first husband, he would 
no more have permitted — ” 

“ There, never mind your first husband, mother,” 
said Barbara. “Mr. and Mrs. Kenrick have only 
an hour to get from here and catch the train, and I 
beg to propose their health.” 

Barbara intended that the point of her speech 
should have been a practical one — the explosion of 
an uncorked champagne bottle which she had in her 
hands ; but the cork fell flat and dead upon tho 


I AM MARRIED. 


333 


table, and the wine came out of the bottle like stale 
beer. 

“ I don’t like that,” said Mrs. Wilton ; “ it is a 
bad omen.” 

I could see all this was making Esther very un- 
happy, so I put my arm round her waist, and said, 
“ There are no bad omens, Esther ; and on behalf 
of Mrs. Kenrick and myself, I beg to thank this large 
and enthusiastic assembly for the warm reception 
which has been accorded to the toast of the morn- 
ing, proposed in such elegant and flattering terms 
by my eloquent relative. Miss Barbara.” I felt it 
incumbent upon me to enliven the proceedings in 
some way. “I am sure you will excuse me from 
making a long speech ; for however facile one may be 
in addressing one’s friends after dinner, it is no easy 
matter to speak after breakfast, after such a break- 
fast, and to such a toast. I can only say for my 
dear wife, that she heartily reciprocates your kind 
wishes, and I can only say for myself, that I am the 
happiest man in the world.” [“ Hear, hear,” said 
Barbara.] “Some remark has been made about 
omens ; I could give you a long list of omens which 
have struck me to-day as indicative of the happiness, 
the continued, the lasting happiness of the bride and 
bridegroom who have been united this morning 
under such delightful, such charming, such affection- 
ate, such loving auspices. I will not detain you, 
however, with any further remarks. I only hope 
that the dear young ladies who have so gracefully 


334 


CHRISTOPHEE KENRICK. 


fulfilled the duties of bridemaids, will soon find 
themselves engaged in that short journey which we 
have made this morning from Bachelor’s Bay to the 
United States.” [“Bravo,” said Barbara, whilst 
Esther smiled, but still looked anxiously up at her 
husband.] 

“ Very good !” exclaimed Mrs. Wilton, as if she 
were going to make an energetic remark for once ; 
“it was beautiful.” Then lapsing back again into 
her usual mood, she said, “ Beautiful, if it had been 
at a real breakfast, and I am sure I wish it had ; 
for I do not like this mock sort of a wedding, and I 
only hope you will be happy, I am sure — ” 

“ Happy, mother !” I said ; “ of course we shall,” 
upon which I kissed the party all round, and giving, 
“ To our next merry meeting,” proceeded to prepare 
for the journey which was to be the happiest of my 
life. Esther chatted about a hundred pleasant 
trifles ; hoped we should see Julia Belmont and her 
husband when they were married ; recalled to my 
mind that party at Mitchings when first we met; 
asked me if I remembered that evening when I flung 
out at Priscilla ; wondered what had become of 
Tom Eolgate ; and made the merriest rattle all the 
way to our journey’s end. 

It was the height of the London ^ season. That 
fact had not influenced my arrangements, for I had 
only been twice in London, — once when I was an 
infant, and once to see the publishers of the Athenian 
Magazine and The Stage, Esther had never been in 


I AM MARRIED. 


335 


London, and she was in a whirl of amazement. “ It 
is like being in the belfry when they are ringing a 
peal,” she said, and I have often thought of her 
simile since, whilst listening to that everlasting din 
of the busiest London streets. How I came to select 
the house, I do not know ; but I had taken rooms at 
one of the Covent Garden hotels. My letter could not 
have been communicated to the head chambermaid, 
who proceeded to cast an awkward reflection upon 
my manliness or upon Esther’s youth. Later in life 
we might both have accepted the mistake as a com- 
pliment. Mrs. Chambermaid had our luggage care- 
fully put into separate rooms, and my orders for the 
reversing of this arrangement were evidently the 
source of quiet but lively merriment amongst the 
servitors of that first landing, during nearly half a 
day — not more : their time for amusement was lim- 
ited. In the country we nurse our fun and think 
over it, breaking out, as it were, into guffaws, long 
after London would have forgotten the wildest joke, 
or the most frightful tragedy. 

Every morning for a week I went out before 
breakfast and purchased, in that attractive Covent 
Garden, a bouquet of flowers for our breakfast- 
table, a delicate attention which was not Jost upon 
my most amiable and charming wife. We went to 
all the sights in a leisurely holiday way, saw the 
pictures, did the opera, went to the Surrey Gar- 
dens, and took a boat to Kichmond. In the inter- 
vals I called upon various publishers, and was in- 


336 


CHRISTOPHER KENRICK. 


f 

troduced to several editors who had been good 
enough to publish my papers. I was received with 
kindly courtesy by all. At one place I was offered 
a share for a few hundred pounds in a highly suc- 
cessful publication, which came to grief a week after- 
ward ; one publisher offered to take any essays or 
articles I might send for a time, and publish them 
at his own risk to see if they would be successful ; 
another offered me a pound a week to come to Lon- 
don and assist him with a newspaper ; but these 
were the peddlers and sharks and beggars of the 
press ; happily, I had made sufficient mark with the 
better class to secure fair arrangements for remu- 
nerative services, and I could see my way to a safe 
income from London so long as I chose to send up 
good readable papers from Lindford. 

Before the week was over I received (sent on from 
Lindford) a letter from my father, wishing me hap- 
piness and prosperity, enclosing a pretty little old 
family ring for Esther, aud five more ten-pound 
notes for her husband. “It never rains but it 
pours.” Dear, kind old gentleman ! I wrote him a 
letter full of gratitude and thanks, and said he would 
be the first we should call upon on our return. We 
bought a load of pretty things with that fifty pounds. 
It was a wedding present, I said, and it should be 
spent in Esther’s honor. It was worth a hundred 
pounds to see my wife looking into all the shops 
and shop-windows of the Strand and Ludgate Hill, 
and a thousand to see her almost childish delight 


I AM MARRIED. 


337 


with Eegent Street. People stopped to stare at us 
both, we looked so happy and countrified, I suppose. 
We excited more attention than the streams of gay 
and gorgeous equipages coming from the park, and 
shopkeepers seemed to take a special delight in 
serving us. Oh, what parcels we sent to that hotel, 
what trinkets, what ornaments, what knick-knacks ! 
The waiters in the house appeared to envy us, and 
the mistress came out of her little room to smile 
kindly upon us and say something about the weather. 
Perhaps we reminded her of happy country days, 
for she told us that she came from Lindfordshire, 
and was married in that county. 

It was a delightful thing to stroll through Covent 
Garden and look at the flowers ; and one evening 
the editor of The Stage procured us a box for Drury 
Lane. A man threw his coat over the wheel of the 
cab, that my wife might not soil her pretty white 
dress as she stepped out. His face seemed familiar 
to me. When I turned round to look at him again, 
he was gone. It was a strange fancy, but during 
the overture to the play I thought that man was 
Tom Polgate ; and more than once during the per- 
formance the same face arose in my memory. Then 
I thought of my dream about Mrs. Hitching dying 
of want, and for a moment a cloud darkened my own 
happiness. Esther looked at me, but she put down 
the anxious expression of my face to the effect of a 
pathetic episode in the play. I speedily, however, 
recovered my cheerfulness, and took note of the 
15 


338 


CHRISTOPHEE KENRICK. 


vastness of tlie theatre, and the gay audience. I 
observed that many eyes were directed toward my 
box ; and no wonder, for Esther looked so fresh and 
bright and simply beautiful, that the gorgeous attire 
and diamonds and feathers and jewels and bright 
costumes of the other ladies only enhanced her 
good looks. 

The week was over at last, and then we had the 
delightful sensation of going to our own home, 
which looked most charming and inviting in the 
evening sunlight, with a cheerful housekeeper re- 
commended by my landlady to receive us, and 
Emmy, dressed in her best style and smiling her 
freshest smile, at the window. We wandered through 
the house over and over again, Esther approving 
of this and the other, and deferentially suggesting 
little changes here and there, Emmy full of gossip, 
and the housekeeper all attention and importance. 

It was a short honeymoon, in the fashionable and 
general sense, and I further vulgarized the ordinary 
notions of a marriage by beginning to work, the 
very next day after our return, in downright earnest. 
I often thought it was lonely for my wife, but she 
always assured me she had plenty of occupation ; 
then Emmy often came to see her, and many of the 
ladies of Lindford did her the honor to leave their 
cards. We were scrupulously careful about return- 
ing calls, our income compelling us not to have a 
large circle of acquaintances, and my occupation 
giving me but little time for the cultivation of social 


I AM MARRIED. 


339 


rites. Sometimes Esther would sit by me for hours 
whilst I was engaged in writing glowing articles for 
the Herald, or serious essays for my kind London 
pubhshers ; but her great delight was when I 
snatched a morning from these labors to cultivate 
that art, the germs of which I had acquired in Abel 
Crockford’s painting-room, to bring her sewing into 
that little garret, and chat and work whilst I 
painted. In the evening we tried some duets on the 
violin and piano, and our favorite piece was “ Kobin 
Adair.” 

When we had been at home about three weeks we 
went over to Stoneyfield. It was on a Saturday 
morning, and a fine summer day. My father re- 
ceived us most cordially. It did my heart good to 
see how Esther conciliated the old gentleman, nest- 
ling under his arm when we went to church on Sun- 
day, and calling him father, in such a sweet, soft, 
loving way. She has brown hair, and speaks small, 
like a woman.” And they made a picture to look 
upon : my father, tall and stooping, with white hair 
and regular-cut features, a little hard and stern, but 
lighted up with a subdued sense of pleasure ; Esther 
in a light summer dress sweeping the ground, bound 
in at the waist by a delicate band with rose-buds on 
it, a blush rose in her straw bonnet, her bright eyes 
sparkling like gems, and her two lips parted with a 
smile that seemed to radiate all over her pretty, 
round, dimpled face. Everybody looked at them, 
and as we walked alony — myself with an easy air of 


340 


CHRISTOPHEB KENRICK. 


triumpli and pride in my gait — tlie townsfolk whis- 
pered, “It’s old Mr. Kenrick’s son’s wife,” and 
“ That is Christopher Kenrick ; he’s an author, and 
very clever ; it was quite a romantic marriage.” My 
poor old father was proud of his son, and of his 
son’s wife, and he said it was a pity we should part 
any more. “ Could we not stay and live in Stoney- 
field ? He should not be long with us.” I urged 
my duty to the Herald^ and the old gentleman at 
once agreed that we must return to Lindford. Sto- 
neyfield was all very well in this hour of victory, but 
every now and then all the old mortal enmity to the 
place rose within my heart. There were not many 
persons whom I could remember in it now, but oc- 
casionally I met men who had been cruel to me 
when I was a boy — men who had attacked me and 
fought me, and men who now and then had got the 
worst of their brutal conspiracies. 

My wife liked Mr. Kenrick’s old shop, and we rum- 
maged amongst the old books together. There were 
still left some of the very works which had charmed 
me when a boy. They looked yellow and dirty 
many of them now ; but there lay “ The Works of 
William Shakspeare,” just as I had left them, with 
their wonderful pictures of the Witches in “ Mac- 
beth.” Burton’s “ Anatomy,” and “ Songs and Bal- 
lads” were still there. I asked my father to give me 
these, and he did so readily, saying at the same time, 
“ The place will be yours altogether some day, Chris 
topher. What you will do with it, I do not know ; 


I AM MARRIED. 


341 


and if I could think that those who are gone be- 
fore us know of our actions below, it would make me 
happy to feel that your mother might see you and 
me and that good wife of yours here together.” He 
spoke with a tremor in his voice, and there Avere 
tears in his eyes, as if the gradual loss of physical 
power was weakening the strength and firmness of 
his mind. I pitied him heartily, and, changing the 
subject as quickly as I could, asked if he knew any- 
thing of Mr. Noel Stanton. He only knew that there 
was such a person. 

I found out Mr. Noel Stanton, and Mrs. Kenrick 
and myself did ourselves the honor of calling upon 
these highly distinguished and delightful people. 
We found Mrs. Stanton, with her back hair down, 
reading a novel, and rocking a cradle in which a 
baby was crying so fiercely that our entrance, and 
the slip-shod servant’s announcement thereof, were 
not heard, to the chagrin and annoyance of Mrs. 
Stanton, who looked up, blushed, apologized, took 
her baby out of the cradle, said houses would get 
into disorder where there are children, wondered 
where Mr. Stanton was, answered the question by 
thinking aloud that he was at the billiard club, and 
otherwise got into dire confusion in manner and con- 
versation. 

I simply mention this as a little matter that may 
interest my lady readers, and in illustration of the 
character of my wife, who always has the nicest 
way of casting oil upon troubled waters. Before one 


342 


CHRISTOPHER KENRICK. 


could see how it was done, the baby was in her 
arms, she was sitting in the rocking-chair, smooth- 
ing the little one’s hair, making it laugh as if there 
never had been a tear in its eyes, and talking all the 
while to Mrs. Stanton, as if there were not the small- 
est grounds for apology or confusion. 

Noel came in presently, and invited us to stay 
and have dinner ; but after an exchange of civilities, 
we came away, and I amused Esther by expressing 
a hope that the Kenrick household would never 
degenerate into such a condition as that of the 
Stantons. 

“ There is no knowing what we may come to,” 
said Esther, laughing, “ but we will try our best to 
keep our husband from the billiard club.” 

“And our babies from yelling their little eyes 
out in cradles,” I said, pressing the dear arm that 
was linked in mine. 



CHAPTEE XXXII. 


A QUIET LIFE. 

I CALL it a quiet life, though no man’s life can be 
a quiet one, unless he be a hermit, and even the 
severest recluse must have his restless moments. I 
call it a quiet life, in contradistinction to those early 
days of trouble and locomotion, in its difference to 
my life at Stoneyfield and Harbourford. I call that 
period between my marriage and the present a quiet 
life, because it has been disturbed by comparatively 
few tempests, because its incidents are commonplace, 
because, in comparison with most lives, it has been 
a quiet, happy time. 

Not but what there have been shadows on the 
path, and winters succeeding the summers, winters 
with death in them, and tears that have almost 
frozen in the well-springs of affection. The first 
few months of my married life was as ^near an ap- 
proach to elysium as can well be imagined. Look- 
ing back now, and forgetting for the moment my 
experience, judging for example, as an outsider 
might judge of her character, I should not have 
been surprised if Esther had turned out to be any- 
thing but a wise and clever wife. So confiding, so 


344 


CHRISTOPHER KENRICK. 


trusting, so self-denying, one might have been par- 
doned for thinking, she would lack the spirit neces- 
sary to successful household management and wifely 
firmness. But it was not so ; there existed beneath 
that quiet, affectionate, happy manner of Esther’s, a 
firm will, a rare spirit. This, indeed, was shown in 
her leaving home at Lindford to take that situation 
at Lady Somerfield’s; also in her encounter with 
Howard and his aunt when I played the spy ; also 
in her courageous marriage of a man who could only 
offer her his hand and heart. Her noble, womanly, 
truthful nature was tried and proved in many ways 
during those early months of our marriage. 

My constant companion and friend, she encour- 
aged me in my labor, did her best to share my 
studies, and always gave me her liveliest sympathy. 
No man could have worked harder or more success- 
fully in so short a time. My name was constantly 
before the public, and yet I found time for occa- 
sional mornings in that painting-room, and also for 
a visit now and then to my father at Stoneyfield, 
who came to see us twice, and spent two Sundays 
with us, a proud and happy man, changed in heart 
and feeling, though the hard, exacting nature would 
make itself seen and felt on occasions. 

My marriage with Esther was conditional upon a 
certain arrangement with Barbara, who invested 
Esther’s money in the commercial establishment of 
a relative. My wife objected to the transaction as 
soon as she knew of it, and begged me at all hazards 


A QUIET LITE. 


345 


to relieve myself from the responsibility of it. The 
Spaniards have a proverb which holds that a “ wo- 
man’s counsel is no great thing, but he who does 
not take it is a fool.” The Italians say, ‘‘ women 
are wise off-hand, but fools on reflection.” I cer- 
tainly believe women have some special instinct 
which inspires them with almost prophetic vision in 
the interests of those whom they love. It has always 
come true in my case, that if I did not listen to the 
first counsels of my wife, I invariably made a mis- 
take. It was so in this business scheme of Barbara 
Wilton’s. One morning I found myself involved in 
liabilities which threatened to sweep away not only 
all I possessed, but to mortgage my future to a very 
serious extent. I had journeys to and fro between 
Lindford and London, visits to Fleetborough, angry 
altercations with Miss Wilton, remonstrances from 
her mother, interviews with lawyers, was served 
with processes and writs, and worried almost into 
as thin and white a personage as the living skeleton 
who made so much mischief between the show-girl 
and her father, in a novel which my wife especially 
treasures. 

This trouble came at a most unfortunate time for 
my wife, a short time within the first year of our 
marriage, and it culminated in a catastrophe which 
we are neither of us likely to forget. Inuring 
my absence at the office, a sheriff’s officer called at 
Bromfield Boad, and some cruel and unjustifiable 
speech of his fell so heavily upon my wife’s spirits 
15 * 


346 


CHRISTOPHEE KENRICK. 


that, when I reached home, it was to find her dan- 
gerously ill. Days of agony and miserable suspense 
followed, and a week afterward there was a little 
coffin in the spare bedroom — a little coffin, I say, 
and I say it with a grateful heart to God that He 
spared the one most important life. 

That was a dark time, but we got over it. The 
case of the commercial collapse was not so bad as 
it seemed. It took all my ready cash, and brought 
out my first novel. A London house consented to 
pay me partly in advance for any important work 
which I chose to engage myself to them for, and 
the whole sum agreed upon immediately it was com- 
pleted. I gave up all the money I possessed, en- 
gaged to pay other sums at intervals, got a release 
from further responsibility, and saw my way clear 
to entire relief within three years. How I worked ! 
I wonder at myseK now, when I think of what I 
achieved in a few months. 

There was another sad interval in the following 
year (“ when sorrows come, they come not in single 
spies, but in battalions”), which involved the death 
of my father. They found him in his easy-chair, 
with the Athenian Magazine, open at my last article, 
just as he had sat down to read after tea. It was 
many hours before the housekeeper discovered that 
he was dead ; there was so much happy repose in 
his face, “ as if he was enjoying his book,” she said. 
A sweet and quiet end for one so W'arped and hard 
in earlier years. Peace to his manes! He was 


A QUIET LIFE. 


347 


buried beside my mother. The old church-bells 
moaned out a solemnly beautiful requiem. We stood 
by the little parlor window, my wife and I, and 
heard their muffled chiming long after the funeral 
was over. It was a bright autumn day. The sun 
shone on the two shambling old trees that looked 
over at us from an adjoining yard. The wind ram- 
bled through their withered leaves and carried the 
dirge-like music of the bells about with it, as if 
burdened with a sad, sad message. A few brown 
leaves hurried to and fro in the street in a weird 
dance of death, to the measure of the bells ; but the 
sunshine told of the resurrection to come. 

It sounds so like the huckstering heir to speak at 
once of the dead man’s riches, as if one spoke with 
the funeral-bell in one’s ear; but I write of days 
that are gone, I write as a man who regards death as 
simply the penalty of life, and I write of one who died 
at a ripe old age, in his easy-chair, apparently with- 
out pain, — as if he had gone off in a pleasant dream. 

My father died worth twenty thousand pounds, 
and I was his heir-at-law, even if he had not, as he 
did, willed his property to me. Five thousand 
pounds went to pay for Barbara Wilton’s specula- 
tion and my folly, and I vowed not to touch the re- 
maining fifteen until my labors and the interest had 
made up the total sum again. My wife encouraged 
me in this resolve, and many times during the six 
years which elapsed before I succeeded in carrying 
out my vow, her wise counsels and self-denial pre- 


348 


CHRISTOPHER KENRICK. 


vented me from breaking down; but I labored on 
successfully, purchased the Lindford Herald^ and 
wrote for my very life, not only for that paper but 
for others; more particularly I wrote for that 
famous house which, in the dark days, had en- 
couraged me by a check in advance for my first 
novel. My books were fairly successful ; but there 
was far more certainty about that income from in- 
vested capital than there was about the money I 
earned in the hard and thorny paths of literature. 
I question if I could have continued to make a good 
income out of my pen, had I been compelled to go 
on writing for a living. In later years, after I had 
painted for six months in the studio of one of our 
most eminent landscape-painters, I earned money 
by my pictures. 

In eight years at Bromfield Eoad we had four 
children. That first little one which we lost ; a year 
afterward, Bessie ; two years after that, Tom ; and 
in the sixth year of our marriage Cissy was born. 
Emmy Wilton was a constant visitor and a source of 
great comfort to Esther, who frequently invited her 
to come and live with us, but always without avail. 
I think Emmy’s pride brooded over those magnifi- 
cent arrangements which she had talked of in the 
past, and because all her own castles bad come to 
the ground she could not bring herself to have 
apartments in one of ours. She remained for many 
years in charge of Dr. Sharpe’s family, and contin- 


A QUIET LIFE. 


349 


ued to hold herself spiritedly aloof from Miss Pris- 
cilla, who finally retired from her school-keeping on 
a small income, never having favored ns with a call, 
though she did condescend to write me a very im- 
pertinent letter on my marriage, thanking me for 
introducing clandestine marriages into the Wilton 
family. Mrs. Nixon left the country to join a real 
or imaginary husband abroad, and my wife made an 
arrangement by slightly increasing the small income 
accruing from his own property, whereby old Mitch- 
ing got a quiet home in the house of a widow’s fam- 
ily. When we left Lindford, he was as happy as his 
wandering wits would permit ; and one day he as- 
sured me he had seen Mrs. Mitching, and she was 
really coming home very soon — very soon.” 

We left Lindford in the ninth year of our mar- 
riage, and selected Hallow for our residence, in this 
way. The Herald had become a flourishing and pow- 
erful provincial organ, and a good property. My 
literary engagements in London had largely in- 
creased, and I had sundry fair commissions for pic- 
tures, although I had up to that time been rejected 
for three years running at the Academy. I had 
resolved to take a partner in the Herald, give him 
full control of the property, relinquish some of my 
more pressing work in town, and find some pleasant 
country house for quiet work and dignified repose. 
I had to meet the gentleman who was anxious to 
give me four thousand pounds and take half a share 
in the Herald, at Gloucester, where he had fallen ill 


350 


CHEISTOPHER KENRICK. 


on liis way to Lindford ; and, the time being sum- 
mer, I thought the journey should be a pleasant 
blending of business and pleasure, so I sent a couple 
of horses and a small open carriage, which I had 
kept only during that year, to Birmingham by train, 
and determined to drive through Warwickshire, Wor- 
cestershire, and Gloucestershire. It proved a de- 
lightful tour, and I made a few useful studies by the 
way. One day we stopped at Hallow, and there saw 
the pretty old manor-house vacant and wanting a ten- 
ant. We all fell in love with it, including Bess, who 
was old enough and good enough to accompany us 
on our journey ; and eventually I took it on a 
repairing lease for twenty years, with the right to 
purchase, at a given sum, within the term. 

Two years after our removal to Hallow my second 
novel appeared, and the most successful book that I 
had yet published, ‘‘More Worlds than One,” a work 
somewhat of the Bridgewater Treatise class, though 
far below that standard, came out three months 
afterward. In the next year the wise men of the 
Academy accepted two out of six pictures, and that 
was the height of my ambition. I remember what 
a happy day it was when Esther accompanied me 
to the private view, and we stood before those two 
works by Christopher Kenrick, one of them that 
very “leafy lane in June” through which we walked 
from church on our wedding-day; and I also can 
never forget what a miserable night it was after- 


A QUIET LIFE. 


351 


ward. Does the patient reader remember that the 
face of a man who put his coat over the cab-wheel 
to protect my wife’s dress when we went to Drury 
Lane during our honeymoon struck me as strangely 
familiar ? I often think that was one of those unex- 
plainable forecasts of the future which “thrust us 
from our stools,” and make us think more seriously, 
with Hamlet, about the other things of heaven and 
earth which philosophy dreams not of. It could not 
have been the man who years afterward, and on this 
very night of the “ Private View,” stood by our car- 
riage (it was my own carriage then), shielded the 
wet wheel with his coat-sleeves, lifted out little Bess 
and Tom, and then looked up at me, and showed 
me (the Lord have mercy on him !) the face of Tom 
Folgate. 

My wife did not notice him. I hurried her and 
the children on before me, and just as they were in 
the vestibule under charge of my servant, I ran back, 
caught that outcast man by the arm, and said, “ Tom 
Folgate !” He looked at me vaguely for a moment, 
and then, with a cry of horror, as if h,e had seen a 
ghost, he rushed away. 

“ Police !” I cried ; “ seize that man.” 

An officer did so. 

“ On what charge ?” he said. 

“ On no charge. I wish to speak with him.” 

“ Let me go,” said the man. 

“ If the gentleman has no charge to make,” said 
the officer. 


352 


CHEISTOPHER KENRICK. 


“ I have none,” I said ; “ but I am very anxious to 
speak with him, and he wished to avoid me.” 

“Don’t holler pohce under them circumstances 
again, sir,” said the officer. 

“ I will not,” I said, tipping him half-a-crown. 

“ Under them other circumstances, holler as long 
as you like and as often,” he said. And we parted. 

“ Tom,” I said, “ in heaven’s name, can I do 
nothing for you?” 

“ No ; nobody can do anything. I like to be what 
I am, to do what I am doing — it is my punishment,” 
he said, doggedly. 

“Can I do anything for her?” I said, signifi- 
cantly. 

“ For who ?” 

“ For that woman — for Mrs. Hitching.” 

“ If you like to go over to America, have her body 
dug up, embalm it, and bring it over here to be 
buried with the old man, you can do that,” he said. 

“ Dead ! is she ?” 

“ Dead she is : died of drink, in a lodging-house.” 

“ Poor woman !” I said. And the tears came fast 
and thick into my eyes when I remembered what she 
was when I knew her first at Lindford. 

“ Aye, poor woman ! I pitied her ; but I pitied 
that old man at Lindford much more when I stood 
by his grave a month ago. I know what a brute I 
am, and I shall live to know it — live to be old and 
gray, and still live and know and feel that I am a 
sort of walking hell. There, let me go; I’m glad 


A QUIET LIFE. 


353 


I’ve seen you, and seen you prosperous. You are 
tlie only human being I ever loved.” 

“Don’t go, don’t, Tom,!’ I said, detaining him, as 
he strove to leave me. 

“ I must,” he said, pulling away from me roughly. 

“By the Lord, you shall not!” I said, seizing 
his collar and pinning him up against a pillar of one 
of the piazzas. 

“ Damme, you’re strong,” he said. “ Well, what 
do you want ?” 

“ To help you.” 

“How?” 

“ To give you money, and a chance of reform- 
ation.” 

“ Keformation I Bosh 1” 

“ It is not too late, Tom ; it is never too late to 
mend. Try with all your might. Don’t you remem- 
ber when you were a fine, handsome young fellow at 
Lindford, with bright prospects? Don’t you re- 
member what happy, pleasant walks we had — our 
boating excursions, our pleasant evenings? Some 
of that old brightness may still come-back again. 
Some of it, Tom, a gleam or two — ” 

“ Don’t, don’t,” said the man, his voice trembling. 

“ And even Emmy,” I said, in a softer tone ; “ you 
might ask her forgiveness, and be forgiven.” 

“ No, no ; damn it, Kenrick, let me go I” he ex- 
claimed, and this time he rushed away ; and I stood 
alone in wonder and amazement. 

This incident spoiled our enjoyment of the play. 


354 


CHRISTOPHER KENRICK. 


We talked about notbing else during the night. I 
prepared an advertisement, and inserted it in the 
Times^ imploring “ Tom F. to let his old friend C. K. 
have his address but he never responded to it, 
and so the even tenor of our life went on. 

We made friends with the Hallow people, and 
Mrs. Kenrick, in her own quiet "way, gradually made 
the influence of the family felt not only in the vil- 
lage, but in the surrounding neighborhood. When 
poor Mrs. Wilton died, which she did at the advan- 
ced age of eighty-nine, the announcement in the 
county paper of her relationship to us, brought us 
such an array of “calls of condolence” as -would 
have been accorded to few county families. At the 
funeral, which took place at Fleetborough, Mrs. 
Kenrick and myself met the whole family. There 
was Priscilla, Barbara, the drunken brother 'who had 
reformed and become a temperance lecturer, and 
Emmy. It was a strange scene when the wiU was 
read. We assembled in that very parlor where 
Esther and I had our wedding-breakfast, and my 
mind was fuU of those past days. Although she 
was gone to her long rest, I could see Mrs. Wilton 
sitting in her chair, and complaining that the wed- 
ding was not en regie, I could hear her mal apropos 
remark about weddings, christenings, and funerals ; 
and I was called out of a still more extensive retro- 
spect which brought in Mitchings’ party, by the law- 
yer’s announcement of a hundred pound legacy to 
my wife. Esther’s was the first name mentioned, 


A QUIET LIFE. 


355 


and everybody seemed to breathe more freely when 
it was found there was to be no favoritism in that 
direction. 

What an odd group it was ! James Wilton, the 
once drunken brother, sat near the window. He 
was a solemn-looking man, with pimples on his nose, 
and a bald head. He occupied himself by putting 
on and pulling off a pair of black cloth gloves, and 
occasionally wishing his handkerchief at flies that 
settled upon his coat. Miss Priscilla sat upon the 
little sofa. There was very little change in her ap- 
pearance at first sight ; but she had grown thinner 
and more acrid in her manner. Her nose was sharper 
than heretofore, as also was her chin. Her lips 
were as hard and firm as ever. She wore false curls, 
and a large profusion of black crape. Barbara sat 
on the right of the lawyer at the table, and made 
frequent snappish remarks, though she did not look 
at all snappish. Indeed, she had grown red, and 
fat, and matronly ; more like a widow of forty-five 
on the lookout for a second husband, than a spin- 
ster with strange notions about marrihge, and very 
selfish plans for her own comfort. Poor Emmy 
looked hke a faded gentlewoman who had been dis- 
appointed in life ; but there was still sufficient in 
her manner and appearance to attract and charm, — 
the black, sparkling eye, luxuriant hair, in long 
curls, escaping from her bonnet, red lips, sloping 
shoulders, and though her long, black dress con- 
cealed them, she had of course still those same 


356 


CHRISTOPHER KENRICK. 


pretty tripping feet which had first made an impres- 
sion upon Tom Folgate. Poor Emmy ! it was a 
hard life for her — a life of disappointed spinsterhood. 
She would have made the man she loved a faithful, 
high-spirited wife ; but whenever she spoke about the 
past, she always congratulated herself that she was 
not Mrs. Eolgate. Her cheek reddened, and her 
eye lit up for a moment, with all the blushing antici- 
pation of a young girl, nevertheless, when I told her 
(some time before Mrs. Wilton’s death), that I had 
seen him. I often wondered if it would be possible 
for a woman to forgive a man that crime which Tom 
Folgate had committed, marry him, and live to- 
gether for the rest of their lives with some share of 
happiness. 

It was found that nearly all Mrs. Wilton’s money 
had been frittered away ; but the reformed son got 
two hundred pounds ; Barbara, five hundred ; Pris- 
cilla, five hundred ; Emmy three hundred ; and my 
wife, one, which I afterward sent to Emmy with an- 
other hundred to make up a sum equal to that left 
for her other two spinster sisters. Several letters 
passed between us, and a serious interview, before 
I could get Emmy to accept this little present; it 
was not until I consented to let her will it to my son 
Tom, that she would give way. 

No, my friend, I have not forgotten the actress. 
If I have not mentioned her in the order of events, 
it is on account of a feeling that I would reserve 
this note about her as a closing one. Moreover, 


A QUIET LIFE. 


357 


you will find her specially mentioned in those last 
extracts from my diary which I am collecting for the 
next chapter. Miss Julia Belmont married Cator 
Manners, and sent us cards. She did not invite 
myself or Mrs. Kenrick to the wedding ; but we 
made a journey to London in due course for the 
purpose of calling upon them. They had a house 
in Brook Street, and lived in good style. The lady 
was as merry and lively as any lady could be ; and 
it was charming to see her kissing Esther and cry- 
ing over her. Crying, I say, though the tears were 
few, and the crying of very short duration. We 
rallied each other with mutual mirth, and Mrs. Man- 
ners confessed before her husband, that she was 
really in love with me once upon a time, though she 
did not care a button for me now. 

“ Do you remember when we acted a passion, and 
I made love in earnest ? Ah, ah, ah! — 

“ ‘ Tell him even now that I would rather share 
His lowliest lot — walk by his side an outcast — 

Work for him, beg with him— live upon the light 
Of one kind smile from him, than wear the crown 
The Bourbon lost’ * 

“ Do you remember, you haughty, wicked Claude 
Melnotte ? And now,— ah, ah, ah I— upon my word, 
I like Beauseant amazingly, and would not change 
him for all the gardeners’ sons or princes in Europe ; 
would I, Cator ?” 

The lady’s laugh fairly rang through the house, 
and set the piano murmuring. 


358 


CHRISTOPHER EENRICK. 


“ No, you are tlie best creature in all the world,” 
said Cator. “ You shall call me Beauseant, lago, 
Othello, or anything you like.” 

“ Yes, but you must take care to be neither the 
one nor the other, for you’ll find no Desdemona or 
Amelia in me, Cator.” 

Mrs. Manners insisted that we should stay to 
dinner. 

“ Don’t be afraid, you will not interfere with pro- 
fessional arrangements ; we are not acting now. 
Cator has taken the King’s Theatre, and is coming 
out himself as Hamlet, — ah, ah, ah ! — it will be very 
funny. He has condescended to ask me to play the 
Queen. I have promised to give his offer my most 
serious consideration.” 

"We dined and spent a merry evening, Mrs. Man- 
ners taking us to the opera at nine o’clock, and at 
twelve insisting upon giving us oysters in a dozen 
different ways, with stout and Chablis ; and “ just a 
nice cup, which Cator makes capitally, to finish up 
with.” 

Mrs. Manners visited us several times at Hallow, 
and astonished the neighborhood by what they re- 
garded as fast London manners; but seeing that, 
although I was a gentleman, I was also a painter 
and an author, and therefore tainted with Bohemian- 
ism, as they fancied, I was to be excused for having 
a few queer visitors. Some of the county ladies felt 
annoyed occasionally when they met strange, noisy 
guests at my table, who talked about actors and act- 


A QUIET LIFE. 


359 


resses, and having to be at their offices occasionally 
at midnight ; but there was one person who dined 
with us when the Hon. Slumkey Skiddins, two county 
magistrates, and a parson were present, that nearly 
cost me my exalted position among the visited resi- 
dents of Hallowshire. The visitor was a man, thank 
goodness ! He came unexpectedly, and only two 
hours before dinner. Even had I felt inclined to 
snub him, which I did not, I would rather have 
fallen from that giddy height which gave my family 
the entree to the county coteries, than been unkind to 
Abel Crockford. 

During my residence at Lindford and Hallow, I 
had had many letters from him — queer, wandering 
epistles — in which he told me he had had some art 
lessons from a painter of eminence, »and was getting 
on well ; and I had sent him a commission through a 
local printseller whom I had known at Harbourford, 
to paint several pictures, which, by the way, were 
but poor daubs. This had spurred him on, however, 
and presently it was found that he really could 
paint, and did paint. One day that same printseller 
bought the imaginary Yelasquez for two hundred 
pounds, and this was a great help to the poor man, 
who thereupon went to London, got into the studio 
of my friend Cross, the animal painter, and after 
three months of hard work there, came trudging 
down to me, leaving his wife at a hotel in the county 
town, whence I insisted upon sending my carriage 
for her. He brought two really good pictures — 


360 


CHKISTOPHEE KENBICK. 


landscapes, with sheep and cows in the foreground 
— and I introduced him to my county friends at din- 
ner, as “ Mr. Abel Crockford, an artist, who has 
dropped in by accident, and who insists upon apolo- 
gizing because he has left his dress-clothes at the 
county hotel.” 

When the wine had freely chculated Abel would 
talk, and he talked so badly — he had such a power- 
ful dialect — that the Hon. Slumkey Skid dins looked 
at his three satellites a strange look, and they all 
left early. My wife said I ought not to have asked 
Abel to dinner, it was not right to ask gentlemen to 
meet a person in his position. 

‘‘ I did not ask them to meet him, he was here by 
accident ; moreover, he is an artist — art raises the 
humble man to the position of the rich, and levels 
all ranks,” I said, grandly. 

Father Ellis, whose acquaintance I made soon 
after coming to Hallow, agreed with me, though he 
said my doctrine was flat Badicalism, which neither 
he nor I were supposed to be guilty of ; but Mrs. 
Kenrick had her own opinion, and I believe she took 
occasion to smooth the difficulty over when next she 
met the Hon. Mrs. Skiddins, by saying that Mr. 
Kenrick had the oddest visitor the other day when 
the Hon. Mr. Skiddins dined at Hallow — a most 
eccentric person, who accidentally found himself in 
the neighborhood, an exceedingly odd person, a 
great artist though, and a friend, she believed, of 
Lord Northallerton. I know Mrs. Kenrick said 


A QUIET LIFE. 


361 


something of the kind, though she did not mention 
it to me : it came out accidentally one night through 
Skiddins, and I found that the mention of Lord 
Northallerton had had a wonderful effect upon him. 
It was certainly a clever stroke of policy to mention 
his lordship, and more especially as poor Abel had 
only referred to the nobleman as frequently visiting 
the studio of my friend Cross. 

“ It is only for the sake of the children,” said 
Mrs. Kenrick, when I rallied her upon it. “ Do you 
think I care for the Hon. Mrs. Skiddins, or any one 
else except for you and the children ?” 

‘‘ I don’t think you do, Esther, my dear,” I said, 
“ though I thought you liked lo be driving about 
with Lady Somerfield, when she did us the honor to 
spend two days with us.” 

I have given you a brief outline of our married 
life, and that monetary difficulty. The Eolgate in- 
cident, and our going into mourning several times, 
are not sufficiently beyond the common run of occur- 
rences to take these latter years out of tlie category 
of what may be called a quiet life. Whilst I write 
there lie before me some fragments of a diary from 
which I have printed sundry extracts in previous 
chapters. I often regret that I did not keep it 
regularly; it would have been of great interest to 
my family, if not to the public. There are no entries 
in it at various periods of my life for months, some- 
times for years. Now and then I have been most 
16 


362 


CHRISTOPHER KENRICK. 


regular in my notes ; in later years my memoranda 
have been more for literary and art purposes than 
for incidents in my life. A short abstract from the 
scattered entries of the last twenty years is necessary 
to the completion of this plain, unvarnished history 
of what I fear my friends and readers may think is 
a very commonplace life, after all. 



CHAPTEE XXXIII. 


A FAMILY GEOUP AT HALLOW. — BEING A CLOSING 
CHAPTEE BY THE WAY. 

May comes in with all its charms at Hallow, cover- 
ing the landscape with fruit-blossoms, and scenting 
the air with the sweetest perfumes of spring. 

This year the weather is exceptionally mild. We 
have, therefore, resumed our open windows and out- 
door assemblies. The following dialogue takes 
place in the drawing-room and on the lawn. Mrs. 
Kenrick is sitting near the window tatting (a fidgety 
occupation, I cannot help thinking). Cissy is trying 
to understand “ The Eing and The Book.” Bessie 
is looking out at the landscape. Mr. Ellis is re- 
clining on an easy-chair outside the window. I am 
walking up and down, smoking one of the choicest 
cigars that Ellis could procure for me when he passed 
through London with his wife, returning from their 
wedding tour. 

Mr, EUis, Why you should head that chapter “A 
quiet life,” I cannot imagine. 

Mrs, Kenrick. The very remark I made, Mr. 
EUis. 

Cissy (looking up from her book). And why father 


364 


CHRISTOPHEE KENEICK-. 


should insist upon misquoting the first line of “ Eobin 
Adair,” is another mystery. 

Myself, I quote the song as my mother sang it ; 
and I call that chapter A quiet life,” because I 
conceive it to be a correct description. 

Mr, Ellis, Commercial troubles that nearly bore 
you down, literary struggles, several deaths, and a 
tremendous incident under the piazzas of Her Ma- 
jesty’s Theatre. 

Myself, Shadows on the path of a quiet life, and 
nothing more. 

Bess {Mrs, Ellis), And it was you who purchased 
that picture of Abel’s ! Oh, if he could only see it 
up in the lumber-room ! 

Mr, Ellis, It might be a Velasquez, after all. 

Myself, A copy. Father Ellis — a copy, and a bad 
copy too. 

Mr, Ellis, There is another story in the art papers 
which will make up a trio with those provincial inci- 
dents of your previous chapters. A picture that was 
originally in the collection of Cardinal Fesch, and 
stored with a large number of other w^orks in the 
basement of the Falconieri Palace, at Eome, was 
removed to the Villa Paolina, and sold in 1845, by 
the Principe di Musignano, to a Eoman picture- 
dealer; from whom, in 1846, it was bought, with 
other pictures, for a small sum by one Mr. E. Mac- 
pherson, who has just sold it to the English nation 
for two thousand pounds. 

Myself, Poor Abel ! Why was not his picture a 


A FAMILY GROUP AT HALLOW. 


365 


genuine Velasquez? He would have been rich 
now. 

Cissy. Who is the painter of this newly discov- 
ered treasure ? 

Mr. Ellis. Michael Angelo. P. von Cornelius, the 
German painter, says it is una cosa preziosa, un vero 
originah di Michaelangelo ; and so say the greatest 
English judges. 

Bess. Did George [what a fall in dignity, from 
Father Ellis to Mr. Ellis, from Mr. Ellis to Ellis, 
from Ellis to George !] tell you that we called upon 
Mr. Millais with your introduction, father ? 

Mysdf. He did not. 

Bess. The most handsomely comfortable studio I 
ever saw. You must really take a lesson from it : 
hung with tapestry, beautifully lighted, with one or 
two fine works of the sculptor here and there ; a 
raised dais for models ; a beautiful little piano in 
one corner, a guitar on the floor, some flowers lying 
about, an exquisitely soft carpet, and on the paint- 
er’s easel a half-painted picture. 

Mysdf. Millais gets a thousand pounds for a pic- 
ture. My highest price was three hundred. Besides, 
he is a handsome fellow, and sets off a handsome 
painting-room. 

Mrs. Kenrick. There are various types of manly 
beauty. 

Mr, EUis. I hope our other great artist may be as 
lithe and active as Christopher Kenrick when he is 
five-and-fifty. 


366 


CHRISTOPHER KENRICK. 


Mrs. Kenrich. Christopher is not fifty-five. 

Myself, Not far off, Esther. I am fifty-two. 

Cissy. And you don’t look forty-five. 

Mysdf. Not with Mr. Ellis for a son-in-law ? 

Mr. Ellis. What, in thy quips and thy quiddities ! 
My thrice-puissant liege is in the very May-morn of 
his youth, and hath a most rare juvenile son-in-law. 

Myself. Nay, rather hath my May of life fallen 
into the sere and yellow leaf ; and I have, sir, a son, 
by order of law, some years older than this. 

Mr. Ellis. Ah ! ah ! by the rood, a merry jest : I’ll not 
try to match thee in Shakspearian mots. Go to ; thou 
speakest flat treason against the kingly state of youth. 

Bess. A truce to this Elizabethan fooling. Let us 
talk of studios. What is Leighton’s like, father, and 
Erith’s and Faed’s ? 

Myself. I know not ; you had tickets for the pri- 
vate view. 

Bess. I like to go at unexpected seasons. 

Myself. Your description of one studio reminds 
me of another modern one exactly opposite in char- 
acter; a workshop, in fact, with no trace of the 
artist about it, except his easel, his colors, and his 
canvas. He is a landscape man, and rapidly making 
his way to the front rank. No trace of the poetic 
temperament, or the refined mind in the place : a 
few chairs, a small billiard-table, a cupboard, and 
big ugly slides to the windows, constructed so as to 
catch or shut out all lights. But what you miss in 
the character of his room you find in his pictures — 


A FAMILY GROUP AT HALLOW. 367 

poetry, refinement, and a full and glorious love of 
the beautiful. 

Mr, Ellis, Name, name ! 

Mysdf, Ben Leader. 

Mr, Ellis, One of the best of our landscape paint- 
ers. We must make him an E. A. 

Bess. Not before we have elected John Linnell. 

Mysdf. Linnell is evidently indifferent about the 
honor. He does not care to submit his claims to a 
jury of rivals and competitors, I presume. 

Jir. Ellis. Has he never allowed himself to be 
nominated ? 

Myself. Never! 

Cissy. Are you an E. A., pa ? 

Myself. No, my dear ; nor a Linnell, nor a Leader. 

Bess. By the way, you do not describe any of your 
journalistic troubles, father. The inner life of a 
provincial editor, as one of your critics once called 
you, must be very interesting. 

Mr. Ellis. De Quincey was a provincial newspaper 
editor in early life. 

Myself. The provincial press, like the provincial 
stage, affords the best possible training for London 
work ; but I don’t think the inner life, as you call it, 
Bess, would interest our readers. The fashionable 
critic will find quite enough to sneer at in the pro- 
vincial reminiscences already described. 

Mrs. Kenrich. You are ungrateful by anticipation, 
Christopher, for the critics are pledged to your book ; 
have they not praised it every month ? 


368 


CHRISTOPHER KENRICK. 


Mysdf. Your rebuke is just, my dear. I cry the 
critic’s mercy. I thank them most gratefully. 

Jir. Fllis, I saw your old friend Levington, the 
member for Lindford, the other day. Why did you 
not go in for a parliamentary career, Mr. Kenrick ? 

Mrs. Kenrick. Yes ; why, indeed ! He might have 
advanced Tom’s interests immensely. 

Myself. My dear Ellis, I am a plain fellow ; but I 
could no more submit to the ordeal of a public can- 
vass, and the humbug of mere party warfare, to say 
nothing of the general worries and intrigues of polit- 
ical life, than I could submit to any other career of 
hollow show and personal degradation. 

Mr. Ellis. Nay, nay, Kenrick ; that is not a fair 
definition. 

Mysdf. Perhaps not. 

Mr. Ellis. And confess that you take a great inter- 
est in politics ; let me remind you how you worked 
at the last county election. You cannot forget that 
eloquent speech you made in favor of the Church ? 

Myself. True — true. We are often carried away 
out of ourselves, as it were, in exciting times. Let 
us change the subject. It is a grand thing to be a 
member of the first and most powerful assembly in 
the world ; but let abler and better men than I am 
sit there. 

Mrs. Kenrick. Yet I remember once, Christopher, 
when you came home from London, you were an- 
noyed at having to wait for Mr. Levington in the 
lobby ; and you said you would never go down to 


A FAMILY GROUP AT HALLOW. 369 

the House any more until you could go straight in 
and take your seat with the rest. 

Myself. A foolish speech, my dear ; but I was 
young and proud. 

Mrs. Kenrick. You have never been to the House 
since, for all that. 

Mr. Ellis. It is not worth his while to go now. 
Levington says it is disgusting to see Gladstone 
nudging Bright during the debates, in the most 
familiar fashion. When Sir Koundell Palmer fin- 
ished his speech against his own party, the other 
night, he leaned over to say a pleasant word to 
Gladstone at the close (men may be friends, if they 
differ in politics) ; the Premier shook his head, 
scowled, and would not listen. 

3Iyself. You are very bitter about Gladstone al- 
ways. It is a good thing for the Conservatives 
that he has not the temper and discretion of Dis- 
raeli. 

Bess. I am sorry to interrupt a political conver- 
sation ; but yonder come some me^nbers of Mr. 
Ellis’s choir. I promised them a practice here to- 
night ; and if Mr. Kenrick will condescend to join 
us with his violin, I think I can promise all of you 
some good music. If you prefer to go on with your 
chat, I can take my friends to some other part of 
the house, where you will not be disturbed. 

3Iyself. My fiddle and myself are at your dis- 
posal, Bess ; there is nothing I shall enjoy more 
than scraping through a good rough bit of Handel. 

16 * 


370 


CHEISTOPHER KENEICK. 


And thus our quiet evening conies to an end. 

We are an interesting group to look upon. Bess 
sits at the piano ; by her stands your humble ser- 
vant ; and crowded round us are four comely coun- 
try lasses, with one stout matronly dame, who has a 
fine contralto voice ; four young stalwart fellows, 
two boys, and an odd-looking elderly man (the hus- 
band of the contralto lady), with a deep bass voice, 
and the most extraordinary plush waistcoat I ever 
saw out of a statute fair. Father Elhs stands upon 
a hassock, on the other side of the piano, conduct- 
ing ; and Cissy is nodding pleasantly at her reverend 
brother-in-law. My wife sits by the window, listen- 
ing to the Hallelujah Chorus, and thinking of the 
past. I know her mind is wandering to former days, 
because I see her now and then casting a quiet, con- 
templative glance at her husband. 

Yes, dear friends, my most courteous and amiable 
readers, that lady in the dark-green moire dress is 
my wife. She was the girl in the lama frock ; she 
is Mrs. Christopher Kenrick, whose name is a house- 
hold word amongst the poor at Hallow. She was 
the round, dimpled, supple beauty of Lindford, who 
steered that romantic lover’s boat amongst the 
weeds and rushes of the quiet river, and thought, 
with him, that the society of those we truly love is 
the highest happiness on earth. Then she was a 
simple maiden in that city by the river, and I was a 
romantic youth, loving and being loved for the first 
time — ay ! and the last time, for that matter ; let 


A FAMILY GROUP AT HALLOW. 371 

me confess it, pledged as I am to this full account 
of my whole course of love. 

Mrs. Kenrick is no longer young, and she has lost 
much of that quiet, submissive nature which, in the 
old days, stimulated so fiercely the chivalrous desire 
of my heated youth to be her protector as well as 
her lover ; to have her nestling under the shelter of 
my strong arm ; to see her, as it were, clinging to 
me, her champion, against a rude world; and to 
feel myself her own brave hero, who would fight for 
her, and work for her, and die for her, if need be. 
I renew my youth when I think of these past days, 
and wish for all young people a pure and unselfish 
love like ours. For pure and unselfish, some of my 
readers may substitute silly and romantic. I leave 
that in their own hands ; but I do not regret that I 
had not lived long enough to learn the more fash- 
ionable notions of marriage before I saw Esther 
Wilton. 

My wife is no longer young, I say ; but she has 
that round, substantial, fair, healthy beauty which is 
peculiar to the elderly Englishwoman. Her eye is 
still bright, her hair only shows a few streaks of sil- 
ver here and there, and her voice is as young and 
soft as ever it was. Do you notice that amongst 
good people the voice rarely gets old ? This has often 
struck me with regard to women. If I shut my 
eyes I can hear that girl in the lama frock prattling 
to me, only there is a little more firmness perhaps 
in the tope and naanner, She would make a fine 


372 


CHBISTOPHEB KENKICK. 


picture even now, Mrs. Kenrick, in her lace cap and 
collar. Her hair is braided with all the art of past 
days ; there is a healthy glow on her cheek still ; 
and her teeth are her own, my friend. Mrs. Ken- 
rick prides herself on that, and if her hair should 
be as white as Ellis’s she would not dye it, though, 
between ourselves, she would prefer that no further 
change in its color should take place. Wliilst the 
hand of Time has gradually wrought out his 
changes in that pretty dimpled girl of the lama 
frock, I have seen no difference in my darling, 
though she sits before me now, a stout, elderly lady 
in a moire dress, with some wrinkles (only a few, 
though) about the corners of her bright gray eyes. 
****** 

Bess. There, that will do. And Mr. Kenrick will 
play us “ Eobin Adair” as a finale. 

“ Oh, yes,” — “ Thank you, Mrs. ElHs,” — “ Thank 
you, sir,” — “ Please do, Mr. Kenrick, sir,” say the 
village choir. 

Mrs. Kenrick gives me an approving smile, and 
once more that dear old instrument which Abel 
Crockford repurchased at Harbourford responds to 
the well-worn bow. The plaintive melody of my 
mother’s favorite song steals out into the evening 
mists, awakening sad and happy memories in two 
hearts, whose full, deep faith and love remain unim- 
paired in the midst of all Time’s fickle changes. 

True love is the star that shineth all the more 
brightly when the air is keen and frosty. Or the 


A FAMILY GEOUP AT HALLOW. 


373 


signal-light to which storm and rack give additional 
lustre. It is the ivy clinging to the crumbling pil- 
lar, the violet blooming in unknown places, the 
lichen that adorns the cottage roof, the green thing 
in the desert, the flower that blooms in the mine. It 
is more precious than rubies, it is the only thing that 
cannot be bought with gold. Hands are offered in 
the market, but not hearts. ‘‘Love is strong as 
death. Many waters cannot quench love, neither 
can the floods drown it ; if a man would give all the 
substance of his house for love, it would utterly be 
contemned.” 



CHAPTEE XXXIY. 


THE LAST EXTRACTS FROM MY DIARY. 

I BEGIN with the year 1842, and, with the reader’s 
permission, I shall transcribe such notes as may 
seem interesting, not only in connection with my life, 
but such others as may seem specially curious in 
themselves, looking at them in the present day, as 
the memoranda of an observant and reflective 
mind. 

Mr. ElHs would have me republish the whole of 
my diary, so far as it is complete. I demur to this, 
out of consideration for the reader’s patience, and 
with a proper regard, I hope, for the feelings of 
some persons who might naturally take exception 
to the introduction of their names into a work of 
this kind. 

Mrs. Kenrick, for whose judgment I have the high- 
est respect, though I do not always act upon it, is 
convinced that I have already trespassed upon the 
sanctity of private affairs. My dear wife’s view 
represents one extreme of opinion upon this point, 
and the opinion of my daughter Bess the other. 
Mrs. Ellis is aggrieved that I have omitted inci- 
dents of local note which she thinks I ought to 


LAST EXTRACTS FROM MY DIARY. 


375 


have used. Actuated by some of the editorial dis- 
cretion of my younger days, I have endeavored to 
take the wise middle course. 

Jvly, 1842. — Am getting very tired of this petty- 
fogging work on the Herald, Am an ungrateful 
beggar, no doubt. Frequent visits to London not 
only give breadth to one’s views, but unfit you for 
mere provincial work. You must be narrow in a 
town like Lindford. My friend, the hon. member 
for this place, says the city has the benefit of my 
more impartial opinions of public questions. He 
thinks I have introduced a higher, broader, and 

healthier tone into the local press Have 

just appointed an editor to relieve me of the heavy 
work of the paper, which I shall leave in his hands 
until I meet with a partner who will take the man- 
agement entirely. I have a good income apart 
from the Herald, and painting is becoming a passion 
with me. My vow about the money left to me by 
my father is at an end — the sum is more*than made 

up Esther is an excellent manager. Those 

who knew her when she was very young seem to be 

astonished at her administrative ability Lady 

Somerfield called and left me a capital old book 
on “ Painting.” Wonder what has become of that 
fellow Howard ; have never heard of him since we 
met at the house of Lady S., on that memorable 
evening. Not a bad incident for a story ; dramatic 
enough, but rather blue-fireish. 


376 


CHRISTOPHEE KENRICK. 


July 6. — The Queen has been shot at again. She 
was going to the Chapel Koyal. A deformed youth 
named Bean presented a pistol at her Majesty. A 
young man named Darret prevented his firing, and 
handed him to the police, who refused to receive 
the charge, thinking it a hoax. Bean was appre- 
hended on the next day. This was about a month 
after the boy John Francis shot at the Queen as 
she was going down Constitution Hill in a ba- 
rouche and four with Prince Albert. Hope they 
will fiog these maniacs. A simple man said to me 
that it was strange to him people could be got to 
fill the offices of kings and queens, seeing that they 
were never sure of their lives for a moment. “ There 
is a divinity doth hedge a king,” I said. “ But not 
a duke,” he replied, referring to the duke of Orleans, 
eldest son of the king of the French, who has just 
been killed by a fall from his carriage. 

July 10. — to write article on “ The Chart- 
ists.” Great riots in the Midlands. 

August 27. — Bean is sentenced to eighteen months’ 
imprisonment. Don’t think I am cruel by nature ; 
but flogging is a very deterrent punishment. In 
cases of gross assaults, and wicked attempts on 
royal lives, would strongly recommend it. il/em., 
to write an article on “ Punishments for Crime.” 

October 2. — Letter from Noel Stanton. Has left 
Nottingham, and gone to London. Has serious 
thoughts of going to America. Mrs. Stanton is very 
well. They have eight children. Fitzwalton had 


LAST EXTRACTS FROM MY DIARY. 


377 


paid them a visit, and was rejoiced to hear of C. K.’s 
success. F. is also prosperous; had left London 
two years ago to take the management of some 
works at Newcastle-on-Tyne. 

October 10. — Purchased a carriage and pair of 
ponies for my wife, who will take great delight in 
driving out the children. We think of moving into 
a larger house. I should prefer going away into 
the country, and living a quiet life, now that we 
have got over all our troubles and anxieties, and are 
rich. When I look back upon the past six years, 
am most thankful to God for all His mercies. Miss 
Wilton’s commercial arrangements with me were 
very disastrous. My wife has often censured me in 
her quiet way for consenting to a compact with her 
sister. I would have agreed to anything in those 
days. When Miss Wilton said I could only have 
her mother’s consent to marry on certain conditions, 
I accepted them without a thought of the future, of 
reputation, character, or anything else, which may 
seem like a sacrifice on my part; but this is an 
utterly selfish view. Esther was worthy of any sac- 
rifice .... Bess is growing into a fine girl. She 
evinces great, good common sense for one so young. 
Hope she will be a clever, accomplished woman. 
Don’t like clever women as a rule. Hope my girls 
will combine womanly modesty and humility with a 
genius for polite learning .... Am progressing 
wonderfully with my new picture. It was great 
presumption my sending those two works to the 


378 


CHRISTOPHER KENRICK. 


Academy : no wonder they were ignominiously re- 
jected. 

January 1, 1843. — What fresh resolves are made 
tO‘day ! How carefully new diaries are opened, 
with strong determinations to keep them regularly. 
Have not been guilty of these sanguine resolutions 
myself. Know I should break down, like most other 
people, in a month. Change my blotting-pad, that is 
all. Mem, for a New Year’s essay, “ On an old Blot- 
ting Pad, with some reference to its Successor.” . . . 
My last year at Lindford. Have more than fulfilled 
my vow about the 15,000L, which has grown during 
these last few years into considerably more than the 
original 20,000^ left by my poor father. I have a 
fair income irrespective of this from my literary 
work and painting. The Herald is now the county 
paper, and this year I sell out altogether at a hand- 
some price. My partner from Gloucestershire lives 
“ Up-hill” in grand style. The cathedral dignitaries 
and the other aristocratic residents of the higher re- 
gions, did not at first seem to relish a newspaper 
man taking the big house in the College-green. It 
was some months before he had a single call ; but 
at length Lady Mary Battlewig’s carriage stopped 
there on its fashionable round. The news spread 
like wildfire, and when, by judicious and successful 
inquiry, it was found that her ladyship had really 
left two cards there, all the grandees of Up-hill fol- 
lowed Lady Battlewig’s example, and my partner 


LAST EXTKACTS FROM MY DIARY. 379 

found himself “in society.” He has succeeded in 
this respect far better than I did at Lindford ; but 
I never laid myself out for it. There cannot be 
a greater bore in life than to be “in society” at 
Lindford, — the tamest dinner-parties in the world, 
the smallest of small talk, the most scandalous of 
scandal, to say nothing of having to join the Up- 
hill league against the Down-hill. No, my painting- 
room, and Esther’s drawing-room, are far above all 
this sort of thing ; not but what I was gratified in 
a small way to see the Dean’s cards. Lady Battle- 
wig’s cards, and the other fashionable bits of paste- 
board, lying in our little hall. My wife says it is a 
just recognition of our social position and my genius. 
For my own part, I preferred much the recognition 
of that notice of “More Worlds than One,” in the 
Times, and that visit of the great poet when he was 
down here two months ago. 

With the debates upon Ireland before us, the fol- 
lowing may have a special interest. ^ 

January 10. — Mr. O’Connell declares that this 
shall be the great repeal year. His five great 
measures upon which Irishmen are to unite are : — 
1. The total abolition of tithe rent-charge. 2. Fixity 
of tenure for the occupying tenants. 3. The en- 
couragement and perfecting of Irish manufactures. 
4. Complete suffrage and vote by ballot. 5. Aboli- 
tion of the present poor-law, and augmentation ol 
well-regulated charitable institutions. 


380 


CHRISTOPHER KENRICK. 


Tliis was the foundation of a seditious outcry, 
which was punished with imprisonment in 1843. 
What rapid strides we are making ! ^ The President 
of the Board of Trade, John Bright, goes a little 
further than poor O’Connell went ; and the Premier, 
Mr. Gladstone, adds to the programme “ the abolition 
of the Irish Church,” “the winding-up of the Estab- 
lishment.” I have been out of politics so long, that 
when I read of them I don’t quite know, pohtically, 
whether I am on my head or my heels ; but I sup- 
pose I am on my feet all right, and that the end of 
the world is not coming. Great changes always 
have been going on, and ever will be ; somebody al- 
ways sees in them ruin and destruction. We pros- 
per, nevertheless. “ Wolf” has been cried so long, 
that we know not when the beast is really upon us. 
I cannot help thinking he is in the neighborhood 
now. “ The Church in danger !” is certainly a 
genuine alarm at last. I fear I am becoming gar- 
rulous : let us return to the diary, to discover that 
violence is not a modern institution. 

January 25. — Edward Drummond, Sir Eobert 
Peel’s private secretary, has fallen at the hands of 
an assassin, who shot him dead on the 20th at 
Charing Cross. These are unquiet times. What 
with “ Chartists” at home, and “ Eepealers” in Ire- 
land, the nation is kept in constant alarm. Mem . — 
And yet I go on painting, and reading, and writing 
just the same. What sort of events would upset 


LAST EXTRACTS FROM MY DIARY. 


381 


one sufficiently to alter the general route of work 
and pleasure ? 

July 27. — John Bright, a leading Anti-Corn Law 
Leaguer and a Quaker, has been returned for Dur- 
ham My dear boy, Tom, has been very ill of 

scarlet fever. A fortnight since we gave him up for 
lost. Shall never forget the terrible grief of Esther. 
I think we should both have broken our hearts if 
we had lost him. Hearts do not break, they say. 
There is great humanity in Fielding’s note upon 
this. “ The Doctor went directly to London, where 
he died soon after of a broken heart ; a distemper 
which kills many more than is generally imagined, 
and would have a fair title to a place in the bill of 
mortality, did it not differ in one instance from all 
other diseases, viz. : that no physician can cure it.” 
Pity “ Tom Jones” and “ Amelia” are not fit for girls 
to read. Fielding is very coarse now and then. So 
is humanity, says the cynic. I fear the cynic is 
right. Our neighbors have lost their infant, a pretty 
little thing five months old. “ Only a baby !” said 
one of my wife’s callers ; “ only a baby !” Philo- 
sophical, perhaps. Struck me as a good subject for 
an article. “Only a Baby!” Fear I am very 
“ shoppy” in my sympathies, always looking out for 
subjects either to paint, or to write about. “ Only a 
Baby I” You can never know how much that young 
mother loved her child. Watching its infant play 
was to her heaven on earth. The false wind blew 
upon it, the false, warm summer wind, with poison 


382 


CHRISTOPHER KENRICK. 


in its breath. The tender bud shrivelled and died. 
Yisits of condolence. “ Ah, very sad ; but a blessed 
release, a divine consideration — better off in another 
world — only a baby, poor little thing!” Only a 
baby! The greater the sorrow. Baby had lifted 
its blue eyes appealingly to its mother ; had pouted 
its little lips, as if in tender complaint that mamma 
did not reheve its pain. Only a baby! Dear, 
pretty child, with its winning ways and its first 
word ! . . . Close the half-opened eyes. Cross the 
little hands over the little breast. Kiss the cold, 
smihng, innocent lips. Scatter fiowers upon the 
white shroud. Pray to heaven that you may be as 
certain of the ecstatic life to come. “ Only a baby !” 
— “ for of such is the Kingdom of Heaven.” 

September 3. — O’Connell has promised the Irish a 
parliament in College Green. 

October 16. — O’Connell is arrested for conspiracy. 

The following are miscellaneous notes at various 
times during this year. 

“ Joe Smith, the Mormon apostle, is murdered in 
a debtor’s jail at Carthage, United States. The 
Mormonites are making converts in Hallowshire. 
Ellis tells me that many persons have gone out to 
join them from various parts of the Midland Coun- 
ties.” 

“ Mr. B. Disraeli, M. P., who made such a failure 
in his first attempt to address the Commons, has 
delivered a very pretty speech, on the union of liter- 


LAST EXTRACTS FROM MY DIARY. 383 

ature and the arts with commercial enterprise and 
manufacturing ingenuity, at Manchester. The occa- 
sion was a great meeting of the subscribers to the 
Athenaeum, where Lord John Manners and Mr. 
Cobden spoke.” 

“ Have invested some money in railway shares, 
but shall move it, and be content with a reasonable 
per centage. Since October, Hailton & Son, the 
sharebrokers, say there have been 41 new pros- 
pectuses issued for 41 new lines. On Aug. 14, more 
than 90 new lines, requiring 60,000,000?. of sub- 
scribed capital, to complete them, were put forward. 
Add to these the 41 new lines requiring 35,265,000?., 
and there are 131 new lines, calling for an invest- 
ment of 95,265,000?., with the power of borrowing 
one-third more, making a grand total of 127,020,000?. 
Must not get mixed up in this kind of investment, 
and no need for it ; shall sell out and be content.” 

“Am worth at the end of this year more than 
25,000?. What a reflection to look baclj to that day 
when I walked to Lindford, penniless and hungry ! 
Mrs. Kenrick thinks my own life would make a good 
novel. Have no desire to write another novel.” 

There are no entries in my diary for 1844 and 
1845 ; but the most important incidents of that 
period are related in my previous chapter, namely, 
my removal to Hallow, and the strange meeting with 
Tom Folgate. During this period I had a severe 
illness, and Cissy had an attack of measles. We 


884 


CHKISTOPHER KENRICK. 


went to Bordeaux, Paris, and Dieppe, in the summer 
of ’45, having had a run up the Ehine two years 
previously. During the early part of 1844 I received 
a kind letter from Pitzwalton, who informed me that 
he was about to retire from his London partnership. 
Letters of congratulation also came to me from 
several eminent writers, upon the success of my 
second novel, w^hich has since gone through several 
cheap editions. I take up the diary again in 1846, 
to find only a few stray notes, chiefly relating to my 
arrangements at Hallow, with calculations of ex- 
penses of furnishing, scraps of plans for a studio, 
extracts from books on farming, memoranda about 
servants’ wages, with other general matters of no 
particular moment. The next year, and the next, 
offer httle better materials for publication. Our life 
at Hallow gradually became such a quiet existence, 
and my own pursuits kept me so close a recluse from 
the outer world, that my experiences gradually lost 
everything in the way of exciting incident. 

Decemher 30, 1848. — A terrible year. Europe 
seems to be in a state of general revolution and 
war. God be thanked, there is peace in England ! 
Hope I am sufficiently grateful for the peace and 
happiness of Hallow. Noel Stanton is making his 
Avay at last. Poor fellow. Shall never quite forgive 
myself for punishing him in that little editorial room 
at Lindford. Stanton tells me he has for some 
years past been engaged as a writer on the Blorning 


LAST EXTRACTS FROM MY DIARY. 385 

Chronicle now. His letters are Ml of references to 
Louis Napoleon, who has just been elected for the 
department of the Seine, and three other depart- 
ments, to the National Assembly. Stanton says he 
has been “ hand and glove” with the prince. {Mem. 
Noel was ever a boaster.) Believes he will one day 
be Emperor. Poor Noel ! Emperors and kings are 
becoming very unpopular. We are on the downward 
road of Democracy. Europe will gradually drift into 

Eepublicanism The Kev. George ElHs fulfils 

all my wife’s predictions, as a good, kindly, genial, 
scholarly feUow. Called to-day, and is very much 
excited about the state of the nation ; says we are 
going to the bad; the Church is in all kinds of 
danger, predicts its separation from the State, and 
expects revolution. If it came to a fight, EUis would 
prove himself a tough antagonist, intellectually and 
physically Mrs. Kenrick has organized a splen- 

did entertainment for the closing of the year. It 
was a rare notion, that of hers, about a procession to 
welcome Christmas. We had quite an old-fashioned 
festival. Brought the- Yule Log and ihe Boar’s 
Head into the hall in state. Ellis was got up as 
Father Christmas, and looked the part to perfection. 
Shall call him Father” in future. 

In 1849 I painted “Harvest Home,” which the 
Duke of Athol purchased for three hundred guineas. 
In 1850 I published “Croesus,” which has gone 
through two editions in America. From this time 
17 


386 


CHRISTOPHER KENRICK. 


to 1860 I did not make a note in my diary, which 
was packed away in the lumber-room with Abel 
Crockford’s Velasquez, several of Abel’s crude pic- 
tures, two or three hundred old books, a small 
theatrical wardrobe, Tom’s broken rocking-horse, 
Bessie’s model house (presented to her by Father 
Ellis), several specimens of Etruscan pottery, and a 
variety of other articles, such as old guns, a couple 
of swords, some curious harness, dumb-bells, boxing- 
gloves, and fishing-rods. At the end of 1860, having 
had a long rest, both from painting and writing, and 
being one day curious about certain past entries in 
my diary, I hunted it up, and entertained my family 
with sundry extracts therefrom. Mrs. Kenrick, there- 
upon, strongly advised me to write my life, and Bess, 
who had grown into a precocious, smart young wo- 
man, echoed her mother’s sentiments. “ Incidents 
of my Life,” was the title which Mrs. K. suggested. 
Of course I should not give all those early notes, 
and that part about Stoneyfield. Bess agreed with 
me that all that early part would make up the book ; 
that indeed it was the book. In 1861, having care- 
fully bound up my old diary, I recommenced my 
notes ; and I now extract therefrom the various par- 
agraphs which follow, omitting, as far as possible, 
aU extraneous and prosy matter. 

December 10, 1861. — A long letter from Tom Fol- 
gate, from which it appears that on the day follow- 
ing my meeting with him near Drury Lane, he 


LAST EXTKACTS FEOM MY DIARY. 387 

started for America with an awakened desire to try 
and redeem the past. Had been successful in ob- 
taining employment at some ironworks, and by dint 
of hard work had made a fair position for himself. 
“ Thoughts of the past,” he says, “ would grip me by 
the throat, as it were, sometimes, and then I would 
have a drinking bout ; but my employers appeared 
to value me for all that. I told the youngest mem- 
ber of the firm a bit of my story one day, and 
he seemed sorry for me. Ah, Kenrick! to be an 
infernal scoundrel and have just goodness enough 
left to know that one is what one is, that is hell if 
you hke. We carry our hell with us, Kenny; we 
carry it about the world burning our very hearts 

out You must keep this letter a secret ; it is 

only intended for you, unless, my dear friend, you 
see any favorable opportunity for using it in my in- 
terest, and that I fear you will not. I should like to 
feel that Emmy (poor, deceived Emmy!) had for- 
given me, and that she is married to a better man. 
My God I Kenrick, when I think of what a rascal 
I have been, I am the most miserable of mortals. 
Sometimes I forget the past, and then I am almost 

happy I have shut out England from my 

heart forever. I don’t want you to write to me. I 
beg you won’t, unless it is just one word — ‘ Forgiv- 
en’ — and that you can address to me at the Post- 
office, Boston, U. S. I promised to tell you my 
story. I cannot now ; but I used to think what I 
had suffered when I was young, and the wrong done 


888 


CHRISTOPHER KENRICK. 


to me by my mother, justified any conduct of mine 
with regard to women. I am not half so much to 
blame about Mrs. Hitching as you may think; it 
was her fault. What a beast and coward I am to 
say so ! Poor lost soul ! I have had a tablet put 
up to her memory ; and my present wife knows her 
story. I told her all before I married her. I for- 
got that you did not know I am married. Yes; 
seven years ago, and I have four children, the eldest 
a boy. God spare him my troubles. My wife is a 
Genoese ; and we rarely speak round my table any- 
thing but French I try to think the past 

dead. I ought not to have revived it in my mem- 
ory with this letter ; but, somehow, I felt it was due 

to you 3Iy mother eloped with a rascal lohen I 

was eight years old; it broke my father's heart That 
is the secret of my youth. The Lord have mercy on 
me ! I often tried to meet that man, but never did. 
I should have murdered him. He blasted my life, 
made my name dishonorable I am a stoop- 

ing old man now ; you would hardly know me. Is 

Emmy living ? Put that in your letter, too 

Farewell ! Remember me when you pray. — T. FoL- 
GATE. 

June, 1862. — Cator Manners and his wife here 
this month. A fine woman, Mrs. M. She was full 
of fun about our Harbourford days. Pictured me 
to Mrs. K. playing the fiddle. Father Ellis greatly 
amused. 


LAST EXTRACTS FROM MY DIARY. 389 

July 10. — Lady Somerfield died, aged 60. Be- 
quiescat in 'pace . . . There are very good short 
memoirs of her ladyship in the local papers. The 
Times mentions her in six lines, that are a tribute 
to her name and family. 

September 7. — Have been confined to my bed with 
a cold, through going out to shoot on the 1st, which 
was a wet, miserable day. Felt very ill once when 
no one was near me, and thought I was going 
to die. Am a great coward, I fear, about death. 
.... What will they say of me when I am gone ? 
Shall I make a name as a painter ? Shall I make 
a name as a writer ? Shall I be known for a dozen 
years after death, either as one or the other. I fear 
me not. After the tomb, oblivion. I have achieved 
a certain fame as a second-class writer and a third- 
rate painter. Let me be content to survive it. The 
author who lives to find that the public care for him 
no longer, must be wretched indeed. To outlive 
your reputation, and to know it, must be misery ; 
to outlive it, and not to know it, like the churchman 
in “ Gil Bias,” what is that ? Men do not suddenly 
become famous. Is it not Horace who describes 
the fame of Marcullus as a course of gradual devel- 
opment, like the growth of a tree ? You may sud- 
denly hear a name trumpeted by the herald Fame, 
but you know not how long the man has been a can- 
didate for this honor. 

Mem. For an illustration of Fame . — Was smoking 
to-day in the summer-house. A perfect ring of 


390 


CHRISTOPHER KENRICK. 


smoke rose steadily upward from my pipe. It sailed 
promisingly aloft. On a bracket by the wall there 
is a statuette representing Fame, with a trumpet and 
scroll. For a moment it seemed as though the 
smoke-ring would become an ethereal wreath upon 

Fame’s forehead It touched the statue and 

was lost. I thought there was a moral in its brief 
career. How many a futile dream floats upward to 
the temple of the flckle god, to be dispersed by a 
single touch of the hard reality ! What if you stand 
beside the great herald, and have your advent on 
the Olympian heights proclaimed ! “ Fame’s loud- 

est blast upon the ear of Time leaves but a dying 
echo.” Even the gorgeous scroll will fade and dis- 
appear as completely as our evanescent ring. Let 
those whose dream is realized be not unduly elated. 
There are pitfalls at the summits of the highest 
mountains. Even the language in which great men 
of antiquity conversed is forgotten. Let those who 
are dreaming still, expect nothing; so shall they 
not be disappointed. Let those who have not be- 
gun to dream, never commence; so shall they be 
happy. 

April 10, 1863. — Cissy has sat to M for her 

portrait ; he is charmed with her, and will send the 
picture to the Academy. 

July 9. — Bess has done herself the honor of refus- 
ing the hand of a wealthy magistrate, residing in 
the adjoining county, because he did not like music, 


LAST EXTRACTS FROM MY DIARY. 391 

and thought th© Waverley Novels damn nonsense. 
Eallow Manor has grown into an important county 
establishment, with well-appointed accessories, and 
the Kenricks have taken rank with the best county 
families, despite, now and then, the smack of Bohe- 
mianism which will break out in their manners and 
customs. 

July 20. — Father Ellis is in ecstasies, that Bess 
has refused Eobinson. The man is an ignorant 
grub, Ellis says ; and Bess, the best girl in the 
world, should have a husband who is worthy of her ; 
in which I quite agree. 

3Iarch 9, 1864. — Have purchased Longden Farm 
and fifty more acres of land. Shall, if I can afford 
it, invest all my money in land and freehold prop- 
erty. 

June 10. — Made arrangements for Emmy Wilton 
to spend a month with us at Tenby. Father Ellis 
promises to accompany us. 

December 9. — Dined in intellectual society at the 
Garrick Club, of which I have been a member for 
several years. Only been five times in the club, 

nevertheless Had a pleasant ramble with 

Mrs. Eenrick through Covent Garden, talking of our 
short honeymoon here. A bright, fine day. Flowers 
and fruit in Covent Garden always. Take great 
delight in this locality. Landor pictures the changes 
of the place in his Imaginary Conversations. The 
convent becomes a play-house ; the garden where a 


392 


CHEISTOPHER KENKICK. 


salad was cut for an abbess is a great noisy market. 
Mrs. Kenrick is wonderfully interested in my gossip. 
Sbe cannot understand that Covent Garden was a 
fashionable place of residence. It was, and the re- 
sort of genius and beauty — Addison, Butler, Dry- 
den, Fielding, Churchill, Bolingbroke, Dr. Johnson, 
Garrick, Macklin, Peg Woffington, Mrs. Pritchard, 
Kitty Clive, Vandevelde, Lely, Hogarth, and a host 
of other brilliant characters. In connection with 
the Old Hummums is told that remarkable story of 
Ford’s ghost. It is in Croker’s edition of Boswell. 
Told what I could remember of the narrative to Mrs. 
K. in our sitting-room over some hot elder- wine and 
brandy. Makes a capital Christmas story. Must 
use it at Hallow on the Eve. Wliat a splendid 
market-square this Covent Garden might be ! Fine 
shops and hotels on four sides, a model market- 
house in the centre, with fountains. It would pay 
the Duke of Bedford to make these alterations. 
Pity the nation does not get it out of his hands. 
Hope Mr. Green will continue to be successful at 
Evans’s ; the only moral place of its kind in London. 
Supped with Mrs. K. in the private gallery on the 
third night of our visit to town. Took two young 
ladies with us, nieces of Levington’s, and a Captain 
West, their uncle. It was my treat. Gave them the 
standard dish of the place — ^kidneys and potatoes ; 
with a hot cup-compound to conclude. Green 
brought us some flowers, and said the Prince of 
Wales and a party would occupy our little box on 


LAST EXTEACTS FROM MY DIARY. 393 

the next night. Somebody should tell the story of 
Green’s life. He is full of curious anecdote. Fear 
some of his anecdotes are more curious than true. 
Pleasant, chatty man represents a past age, like 

C. K. 

1865. — Tom has left Woolwich, and passed his 
examination triumphantly. Has chosen the Artil- 
lery. Will have a holiday now, and join the Hallow- 
shire Militia, “ just to keep his hand in,” as he says. 
Captain W has been on a visit at Hal- 
low with Tom. The captain was on board the 
Tiger, famous during the Crimean war, and was a 
prisoner amongst the Eussians. “How did you 
like your imprisonment ?” Mrs. K. asked. “ Oh, it 
wasn’t very objectionable, so long as you had money 
to make things pleasant with your jailers, and to 
buy what you wanted.” He had several times been 
in action. “What were your sensations on first 
entering into a conflict. Captain?” “Well, some 
people,” he said, “have very erroneous notions 
about these things ; it is thought that a i^an goes 
into action more pluckily at his second than on his 
first engagement. Now, the truth is, when men are 
going in for their first fight, they are all so anxious 
to prove that they are not cowards, they are all so 
bent upon making a reputation for courage, and all 
so jealous of their characters for the same, that they 
are reckless in their daring, and they overdo courage. 
When the second fight comes, they are much more 


394 


CHRISTOPHER KENRICK. 


careful, and will accept shelter from shot very 
eagerly, if they can get it. The first fight has some- 
thing of the fine chivalry of war in it — the second be- 
comes business. That’s my experience.” Mrs. Ken- 
rick wishes Tom had chosen some other profession. 

August 7, 1866. — Just returned from Malvern. 
Emmy Wilton has accompanied us. She tells Mrs. 
Kenrick that Miss Wilton has gone to live with her 
sister Priscilla, at Lindford. Singular incident oc- 
curred to me at Malvern. Went into the billiard- 
room at the hotel for the purpose of smoking a 
cigar. A pleasant, gentlemanly person there with 
a gray moustache. Challenged me to play a game. 
Had not taken up a cue for some years. Liked the 
fellow, and played with him. He beat me easily. 
Very chatty, talked of places I knew, and books. 
At parting we exchanged cards. Thought he looked 
surprised at my name. I declare that his own did 
not carry my thoughts to past days, on the instant ; 
but on my way home it occurred to me that I had 
just exchanged cards with my old rival, Howard. 
On inquiry, I found it was so. He is married, and a 
young lady with long brown hair, who rides a chest- 
nut cob past our house every afternoon, and whom 
we have all admired, is his daughter. Mrs. K. 
thought it was perhaps not worth while to renew the 
acquaintance. 

Septeraber 10. — How persistently people meet 
again ! At Norfield Court, where we dined yester- 
day, we were introduced to the Howards, Of course 


LAST EXTBACTS FKOM MY DIARY. 395 

no reference was made to the past. They are very 
pleasant, agreeable people, and Miss Howard is 
charming. 

October 7. — ^Abel Crockford is making a respect- 
able position as an animal painter. He is staying at 
the Kenrick Arms, Hallow, and painting. He calls 
upon us nearly every day. The girls are pleased 
with his wife — a simple, fat, rosy woman, who almost 
worships her husband. A shrewd fellow, Abel. 
Tells me he was very fortunate two years ago : 
bought a picture for ten pounds at a sale, and sold 
it for two hundred and fifty — it was a Cooper, and in 
Sidney’s best manner. Abel does not think that old 
picture was good for much, after all. Yery glad 

when he sold it The other night we had a 

little musical party of our own, for the amusement 
of Abel and his wife, at which I delighted our vis- 
itors by trying over some of those crack-brained 
waltzes and quadrilles which the orchestra used to 
play at Harbourford. Abel, who must be nearly 
seventy, was as lively as a young man^ and would 
sing a comic song, at which Mrs. A. laughed immod- 
erately, though she must have heard it a hundred 
times. What a devoted wife she is who can go on 
through a whole lifetime laughing at her husband’s 
old jokes ! Always guard myself against pestering 
Mrs. K. with that kind of egotism and selfishness. 
H. Skiddins has told one story, in my hearing, a 
dozen times at least. On the last occasion, it was 
actually led up to by his wife, who laughed at it as 


396 


CHRISTOPHER KENRICK. 


if she had heard it then for the first time. What 
kindly, good-natured, affectionate humbug ! 

October, 1867. — “ Be thou as chaste as ice, as pure 
as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny.” Man 
and woman, youth and maiden, let these words of 
the Wise Man of Stratford be taken into your mem- 
ories — not as a drop of gall to mingle with your 
opinions of humanity, but as a standing caution 
against the scandal-monger. If you have not yet 
suffered from the poisoned tooth, William Shaks- 
peare tells you that you shall not escape it, and you 
may be quite sure that William Shakspeare is right. 
Montesquieu said he never listened to calumnies, 
because, if they were untrue, he ran the risk of be- 
ing deceived ; and if they were true, of hating per- 
sons not worth thinking about. Another writer has 
said that those who propagate evil reports, frequently 
invent them, and that it is no breach of charity to 
suppose this to be always the case, because no man 
who spreads detraction would scruple to produce it. 
These are very good reasons for turning a deaf ear 
to the scandal-monger. Let us add to them the 
more selfish one which we indicate at the outset. 
Calumny will surely seize upon you some day. 
You may only be lightly grazed ; you may be deeply 
lacerated. Eemember this when you hear the hiss- 
ing of the scandal-monger, and think how much 
charity you will expect from friends and foes when 
you are attacked by calumny These are 


LAST EXTEACTS FROM MY DIARY. 397 

notes for an essay that never was written. They 
were inspired by some scandalous gossip in the vil- 
lage concerning an innocent girl who drowned her- 
self because a wretched prude, and a designing vil- 
lain, had propagated a most evil and untruthful 
report about her. 

November 5. — It would seem that the air is thick 
with scandals. Father Ellis has heard some shame- 
ful reports about the Kev. Paul Felton, who is very 
angry, as well he may be. Mrs. Kenrick says Eev. 
P. F. is particularly attentive to Cissy, who talks 
about him continually. 

Nov. 11. — The electors of the adjacent borough 
have offered me a special honor — an uncontested 
seat in Parliament. I have had the courage to de- 
cline it, notwithstanding the importunities of my 
wife and Father Ellis. What do I want in Parlia- 
ment ? What is Parliament to me, or I to Parlia- 
ment ? Should be compelled to reside in town part 
of the year .... Have gracefully, but positively, 
declined ; but undertaken to be chairman of a local 
committee for the Hon. Slumkey Skiddins. 

December 2. — Met Stanton in London at the Gar- 
rick. He is a weakly fellow on two sticks. Says 
his eldest son is on the Times, and insists upon 
almost keeping the house. Has two daughters at 
home ; three married, and doing well ; and two sons 
in the Customs. We smoked a cigar together, and 
he told me a wonderful incident that had occurred 


398 


CHRISTOPHEE KENEICK. 


in his life four years ago. First reminding me of his 
prediction about Louis Napoleon, he said, I had 
regularly broken down in health, and was advised 
to go to the south of France for change. Had 
hardly been in the country a month, when, one day, 
a fine showy officer entered my poor rooms (I had 
had to borrow money to go away), and asked me 
if my name was Noel Stanton ? ‘ Yes,’ I said, ‘ it 

is. ’ ‘Formerly of the Morning Chronicle?' ‘The 

same,’ I said. ‘I have the Emperor’s commands 
to request your attendance upon his Majesty at the 
Tuileries.’ I took train for Paris the same day, and 
waited upon his Majesty in the morning, pondering 
much, you may be sure, how Louis (a bit of the old 
pomposity here, Louis, forsooth!) knew I was in 
France. He received me, Kenrick, most affably, 
inquired into all my circumstances, and I told him 
I was poor, and in bad health. I did that in spite 
of a desire to maintain my own dignity, because I 
had known him, sir, when he was poor. ‘ I am re- 
joiced to find you in my country, and to have this 
opportunity of acknowledging your kindness in the 
past,’ said the Emperor. Then moving to an escri- 
toire, he said, ‘ I fear there is only one way in which 
I can be of service to you. Here is a concession 
for railroads. Take it to Messrs. E .’ I did, 

boy> and they gave me five thousand pounds for 

it. What think you of that, Christopher Kenrick ?” 
“ That your friend is an emperor indeed,” I said. 
.... The Eev. Paul Felton has offered his hand 


LAST EXTRACTS FROM MY DIARY. 


399 


to Cissy, and Mrs. K. and myself have endorsed 
Cissy’s acceptance of it. Fear I am prejudiced ; but 
there is something about Felton which I do not like. 

1868. — This year I commence the story of my 
life. It is shrewdly true that “ there are three dif- 
ficulties in authorship : to write anything worth the 
publishing ; to find honest men to publish it ; and . 
get sensible men to read it ”... . Shall overcome 
the two latter difficulties through the Gentleman's 
Magazine, What of the first ? 



CHAPTEE XXXV. 


CONTAINS THE FRIENDLY VERDICT OF A FRIENDLY 
JURY, AND BRINGS MY “ROUND UNYARNISHD TALE” 
TO AN END. 

Assembled in my study, on a pleasant evening at 
the end of May, are Mrs. Kenrick, the Eev. George 
Ellis, Mrs. Ellis, Miss Kenrick (my dear Cissy, who 
says she never intends to marry, and I hope she 
may keep her word, for she is a great comfort to her 
mother, and, after all, marriage is a very serious 
business). Miss Emmy Wilton (a thin, spinster lady, 
with an eye-glass something like poor old Mitch- 
ing’s), Mrs. Abel Crockford and Mr. Crockford, Mrs. 
Cator Manners, and Mr. Cator Manners. It is a 
special meeting, called at the suggestion oi Bess, 
for a closing criticism upon my book. Poor Tom is 
in India ; his voice, if necessary, shall go which 
way the meeting chooses. We have had an excel- 
lent dinner, have sat two hours over our wine, the 
ladies having had an hour in the drawing-room ; 
coffee has just been served in the library. I pre- 
ferred this, that I might feel more master of the sit- 
uation than I should in the other room. Ellis says 
I have bribed them with a good dinner. 

“ The w^orst of the business is,” I say, “ that I 


VERDICT OF A FRIENDLY JURY. 


401 


must read you the last two chapters, one of which, 
containing extracts from my diary, is rather long.” 

There is a cry of “ Bead, read,” whereupon I take 
up my MS. and read the two preceding chapters, at 
the close of which there is a general round of ap- 
plause, and Ellis says he would like some cura§oa 
in his coffee. His wish being promptly obeyed, and 
Mrs. Kenrick having called an interval for fresh 
supplies, the last dialogue begins. 

Myself, Ladies and gentlemen, my dear friends, 
you have all read my story. Miss Wilton, I find, 
only discovered it three months ago ; and Mrs. and 
Mr. Manners have read it since they have been at 
Hallow this week. Mr. Crockford has had a copy 
of the work month by month, as it has appeared. It 
has occurred to Bess, and I have adopted her sug- 
gestion, that I should bring you all on the stage for 
the closing scene. Mr. Noel Stanton is too ill, or he 
would have been with us. His wife could not come 
alone. Mr. Fitzwalton has gone to Eussia, about a 
contract for locomotives. His wife is S,n invalid. 
She has lost that decayed tooth, and is suffering 
from neuralgia. The Miss Wiltons, the megs” of 
my early chapters, have not been invited to come 
here. Mrs. Nixon has left England ; if she had not, 
I should have excluded her from my general invita- 
tions. Death, alas ! has removed others. Two 
loved ones have passed away, in the course of 
nature, ‘‘ gone to their rest ;” two others have been 
removed under painful circumstances, which bring 


402 


CHEISTOPHER KENRICK. 


back to some of us sad and bitter memories ; and 
one is dead, though living, forgiven on this earth, 
but not forgotten. We all hope and pray that he 
may be forgiven, and not forgotten, on the Great 
Day when judgment shall be delivered. It had long 
been a fond desire on my part to tell this last story 
of my life. Mrs. Kenrick gave me constant encour- 
agement to do so. She says I owe you all an 
humble apology for the use I have made of your 
names. If I have said anything which has pained 
Mrs. and Mr. Manners, or Miss Wilton, or my 
friends the Crockfords, I am sincerely sorry. The 
only revenge I can offer you is, to print anything 
you may say about my performance, as a closing 
chapter. 

3Its. Manners, The story is a very good story ; but 
it is not true. 

Mr, Manners, It would have been a much better 
story if some parts that are true had been left out. 

Mrs, GrocJcford, If I may be allowed to .offer an 
opinion, which I feel ashamed to say anything at all 
in such company, it is that the book is the most 
beautiful one I ever saw ; and the tears that I have 
shed over it about Mr. Kenrick living at Harbourford, 
I am sure I could hardly say. 

Mr, Croch/ord (who was very fidgety whilst his 
wife was speaking, nodding at her to bring her re- 
marks to an end). I don’t think I can hardly forgive 
the Squire for buying that picture, though it was 
like his good heart to do it. 


VERDICT OF A FRIENDLY JURY. 403 

il/r. EUis. I think a certain private conversation 
at Durham might have been omitted ; but no matter. 

Cissy » Tom is not here to object to the details of 
that part of the story in which father was poor, so I 
will put in a mild protest for the dear boy, with an 
expression of my own regret that pa has thought it 
wise to publish the whole of our conversations in his 
“ Chapters by the Way.” 

Bess, The story is new, and it is all the better if it 
is true. If I might have had my own way in re- 
vision, I, too, should have excluded some of the 
Durham dialogue, with other references to myseK 
and Mr. Ellis. But I bow submissively to higher 
authority. 

Mrs. Kenriclc, Christopher has done more than 
justice to his wife, and it would be ungracious were 
I to offer any further objections to the story than 
those which have formed my constant protest 
against certain details. I very much dislike that 
reference to Mr. Crockford and Lord Northallerton ; 
and I repudiate the inference which the reader must 
draw with regard to my fancied explanation to the 
Hon. Mrs. Skiddins. 

Jfr. Crockford.. With great deference, it didn’t 
please me, that part. I baint so ignorant as I used 
to be at Harbourford. A man as does his duty and 
tries honestly to do justice to the talents that God 
has given him, is as good as a lord ; and better than 
a good many lords, as some on ’em will discover 
when the reckoning takes place. 


404 


CHRISTOPHER KENRICK. 


Mrs, Planners, The conceit of that young gentle- 
man at Lindford ! To think that a fine dashing 
actress with a fortune was in love wdth him ! Men 
are born with double the vanity of women. But 
that was a vile plot of Cator’s — a vile plot. 

Mr. Manners, All is fair in love and war. 

Mrs, Kenrick, Why did you not invite Mrs. and 
Mr. Howard to come ? 

No answer from the author, who sits sipping his 
coffee and smiling benignantly on his family and 
friends. 

Miss Emmy Wilton, I am sufficiently indifferent 
to the world to be quite indifferent as to what it 
says or thinks of me ; but I hope Christopher does 
not think that any selfish feelings of pride prevented 
my accepting Esther’s invitation to live with her 
always; if he does, I will prove my gratitude by 
never leaving Hallow again. 

3Iyself, That is something gained. I do think it 
was your pride ; and now you will stay with us, sis- 
ter Emmy, for good. 

Cissy, Yes, do ; do, aunt Emmy. 

3frs. Kenrick, Do, Emmy ; say you will now, at 
once. 

Emmy, On two conditions, my dears. 

Myself, Name them, Emmy. There is hardly any 
condition that you can stipulate to which we will not 
agree. 

Emmy, That you will exonerate me from a selfish, 
proud wish in the past, and not allow me to live with 


VERDICT OF A FRIENDLY JURY. 405 

you longer than is perfectly agreeable to my sister 
and niece. Sometimes relatives outgrow affection 
when they see too much of each other. 

Myself, I agree, Emmy, my dear friend, I agree. 

Cissy, Oh, I am so glad ! Pa’s book has done 
some good, at all events. 

Mr, Crockford, But it would have fared something 
like the picture as the artist put in the market-place 
for critics to point out objectionable parts, if Mr. 
Kenrick had let us all have a hand in correcting the 
proofs. 

Myself, A happy thought, Abel. 

3Ir, Ellis, The diary is the best part of the book. 

Mrs, Manmrs, No, Mr. Ellis, the early scenes at 
Lindford. 

3Ir, Crockford, That bit about the theatre at 
Harbourford is most to my taste. 

Cissy, I like the description of the river at Lind- 
ford, and that scene at Lady Somerfield’s. 

Bess, The opening chapter is equal to anything in 
the book. • 

3Ir, Ellis, What think you to that philosophical 
dialogue between Father Ellis and the author ? 

Mrs, Manners, The driest part of the whole story. 

Mr, Manners, Ah, ah,— that is one for you, Mr. 
EUis. 

Mr, Ellis, It is clear we shall never agree about 
the merits of the work ; let us come to the tag, and 
finish the scene. 

Mr, Crockford, I’ll tell you a story of my early 


406 


CHRISTOPHER KENRICK. 


career that I have never told Mr. Kenrick. Per- 
haps you may get a moral out of it for the fynally, 
as they calls it in music. When I first began to 
paint, I used to do little bits that were raffled for in 
public-houses. The second thing as I did was the 
lion and the unicorn. I painted it for a sign ; but 
the party broke, and I had it on my hands. I made 
it into what you might call a cabinet picture, put a 
frame round it, and got up a raffle for it ; twenty 
subscribers at one shilling, the winner to pay half-a- 
crown for beer. A man — a curious sort of man, as 
read a good deal, and was looked up to at the public- 
house — won it, having put in without seeing it. I 
took it to him at his workshop the next day, proud 
as he had got, it. “What’s the subject?” says he. 
“ The lion and the unicorn,” says I. “ Which is the 
lion ?” says he. “ Why that un,” says I, pointing to 
the lion indignantly. “ What’s to spend,” says he, 
“ by the winner ?” “ Half-a-crown,” I says. “ And 

which is the unicorn?” “Why that un,” says I, 
pointing to the unicorn. “ Then I wish I hadn’t a 
won him, Abel,” says he. I was never conceited 
about my painting after that. Now, Mister Kenrick, 
sir, to talk a bit like you make me in them early 
chapters; we haven’t said we wish we’d never a 
bought your book ; we’ve offered a bit of fair criti- 
cism like, but we none of us axed you, sir, which is 
the lion and which is the unicorn. I hope, Mr. Ken- 
rick, sir, that be agreeable to your feelings, and if 
you can make a moral out of that, why ring the cur- 


VEKDICT OF A FEIENDLY JURY. 407 

tain down, sir, to the tune of ‘‘ Kobin Adair,” and say 
no more about it. 

Mrs, Manmrs, And let the last words be some- 
thing smart and sentimental about the reward of 
courage, and the triumph of love that’s true and 
faithful ever. 

Mr, EUis, A bit of Latin, an easy familiar quota- 
tion, would, perhaps, sound well : — 

“ Multa tulit fecitque piler, sudavit et alsit ; 

ut posset contingere metam.” 

“ He suffered and did much in youth ; he bore heat and cold, 
in order that he might reach the goal.” 

Mysdf, Apt, but stilted. I like better Hans 
Christian Andersen’s motto, — “ People have a great 
deal of adversity to go through, and then at last 
they become famous.” I will speak the tag. 
’Twere best it should be simple as my story. First, 
my thanks are due to you, my kind, dear friends, 
for the part you have played, individually and col- 
lectively, in this drama of life. To these critics 
who have said so much that is gracious and liberal 
between the acts, I tender my cordial acknowledg- 
ments, satisfied that they have been more generous 
than just. And, lastly, to you, my dear audience, to 
you who have borne with me so patiently, content 
with the incidents of a boyish love and its home- 
liest scenes, the author apologizes for his shortcom- 
ings, is grateful for your attention, and happy that 
you have sanctioned his work by your continued 


408 


CHRISTOPHEE KENRICK. 


presence and occasional applause. . . . He hopes, 
ladies and gentlemen, you will be enabled to say 
that he has at least fulfilled his opening promise, 
not to deceive you. . . . And . . . 

Mr, Grockford, Blue fire, and drop ? 

Myself. Ought I to say any more ? 

Jir. Manners. To each and all, a fair good-night, 
and pleasant dreams, and [Mr. Ellis ( aside ). Lunch- 
eons light] slumbers bright. 

Myself. This is nonsense. 

Mr. Grockford. Have the blue fire now, sir ? 

Myself. No, Abel ; thank you, we will have no 
blue fire. 

Mr. Grockford. Then you must have a rhyme, sir, 
or something ; we always had at Harbourford : 

“ I’ll guard tliee, love, from every wrong, 

So love me little, love me long.” 

That’s better than nothing, sir. 

Mrs. Manners. Give each a line, and close with — 

Mr. Manners. A good rattling break-down. 

Ilyself. No, no, this is becoming foolish ; and with 
all respect to you, my dear Manners, a trifle vulgar. 
Let me speak to the house. Ladies and gentlemen, 
our play is ended ; if it has pleased you, be kind 
enough to recommend it to your friends, and believe 
me to be always your obliged [Orchestra: slow 
music, ‘‘Eobin Adair”], obedient servant, 

>■745 ■ 


Christopher Kenriok. 


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